


The Wind Chronicles of Gaea

by Soprano_Reaper_777



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types, Tenkuu no Escaflowne | The Vision of Escaflowne
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arthur x Lancelot, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Dragons, Elemental Magic, Gawain x Percival, Guinevere x Linde, Humor, Incidental Original Characters - Freeform, Inspired by Escaflowne OST, Inspired by Final Fantasy XII OST, Inspired by Kingdom Hearts OST, Inspired by Xenogears OST, Magical Artifacts, Magical Weapons, Medieval References, Multi, Multiple Universe References, Mythology - Freeform, POV First Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, Sonic and the Black Knight, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 126,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soprano_Reaper_777/pseuds/Soprano_Reaper_777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a championship track race, Sonic is suddenly thrown into a land where cars are unheard of and concrete is nonexistent. This new place is called Gaea, a place that keeps an eye on Earth without her knowledge. Thoroughly confused enough, Sonic learns that he must go from cocky speed demon to precocious young lord within the span of a year by passing several tests of will, strength, and faith and proves himself the proper wielder of the final Sacred Sword. Or else Gaea's chief Netherworld deity will be resurrected and usher this invisible world into perilous chaos. :EVENT THIRTY-TWO UP! Archive Warning for EVs 20, 22, 24, 26 & 27: I/P</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Day My Life Changed…Much to My Chagrin

 Event One

 

_Have you ever woken up and forgotten where you were sleeping?_

Waking up in the morning is a pain. It feels like it’s ridiculously early, but it’s actually— what?— 7:30 in the morning. I was never much of an early bird; I’m still not. But my damned alarm clock keeps waking me up at ungodly intervals.

            “Curse you, stupid alarm clock,” I mutter crossly, poking the “Snooze” button.

            Even though I’m really meaning to press the “Dismiss” button.

_Well, I have. Once again._

            I could never figure out which one was which on that thing, since it’s an analog-style alarm clock.

            Because my grandmother and I share an abhorrence for high-pitched beeping sounds that digital alarms have.

            The chittering ring of my alarm’s bells bring me out of my kinda-sorta light sleep. I finally manage to flick the “Dismiss” switch, but my arm deadens immediately. And before I know it, I’m back asleep.

            It works in funny ways, my brain does. It is clearly the strangest creature on Planet Earth. Because soon after, my upper body’s being thrown into an upright position and I’m flailing like an idiot. Without the help of those incessant reminders or anything.

            “What the— ? Huh? Where— ? Where the…?” I blink sleepily, a tad stupidly as well. “Oh. Wait…? Room. Yeah. That’s a thing that’s there.”

            I’m just…awake again. Stupid brain.

            “Sonic-Dear?”

            Well, there’s my G-ma. Right on cue, as usual.

            “Are you up, Sweetie?”

            “Aagh, yep,” was my playful nasally reply, failing to be nonchalant.

            “Then guess what today is…?”

            My bedroom door slides open and there she is, with the best-looking breakfast tray I’d ever seen since I was little. It was a breakfast of champions, featuring three servings of hash browns, four strips of turkey bacon, a medley dish of sliced strawberries, kiwi, and blue grapes, two slices of buttered toast, and a tall glass of citrus punch.

            Wait. Citrus punch? That crappy watery knockoff of my precious breakfast-classic premium orange juice?

_"Instead of my OJ?"_ I think to myself. Cue my blank stare. _"…What is she, crazy?"_

            “I’m sorry, Sweetheart, for bringing you this watered-down version of your favorite morning drink, but I couldn’t afford the real thing the other day at the grocer’s…so I settled for this instead. I hope you’re _not_ -too _-_ mad at me-me-me! La la-la!”

            I continue to watch, with my dumbfounded stare, as G-ma prances around my room and sings like a happy little skylark that knows ballet. With my breakfast tray still in hand, mind you.

            “Gah! Granma! Be careful, or you’ll hurt yourself!” I snap fearfully, flailing my arms at her like a rag doll’s. “ _And_ all my precious food!”

            Then, with sudden composure, Granma presents the tray to me. Blinking a little, I look up at her strangely cute “With Love, Grandma” smile. She even threw a chuckle in with it.

            “Do you know what today is?” she asks me again.

            I blink at her again before starting to scoff down my awesome breakfast. As I ate a little drowsily, I went on to ponder about an answer. She can obviously see the cogs in my waking brain turning slow as heck. But her patient smile is always reassuring.

_Even with my morning-to-morning brain farts, forgetting where I’ve slept isn’t a big deal, really. It’s the mini-heart attacks I give myself whenever I do forget that bother me._

            “Umm…June 14th?” I reply with a full mouth.

            She giggles. “Yes, but not quite what I’m looking for, sweetie.” She pats my shoulder, playfully snooty as always.

            “Dang it,” I complain, pursing my lips childishly. “Huhh…Flag Day?”

            “Very good! How attentive you are! …But still, not what I’m looking for.” She flicks my nose and starts wagging her snooty-patooty index finger at me.

            And my incorrect answers are starting to irritate me. But my next answer quelled it. “Uh…Friday?” My blunt response came with a lifted eyebrow.

            “Hurray!” my grandmother squeals. She had leapt from my bedside and was somehow stuck in midair, like a freeze-frame image, with blue-and-white pompoms. She made herself look like a high school cheerleader— only much, much older. It’s odd, and oddly entertaining. Her antics are always so crazy, making her an atypical grandmother right off the bat.

            I shake my head. _"I wonder if that’d be something Mom would do?"_

            Most likely, I figure, since she is Mom’s mom, after all. She’s still pretty spry for a sixty-six-year-old woman; she’s _not_ to be trifled with, though.

            Especially when it comes to cooking. She _always_ wears the pants when it comes to cooking. Never cross her in the kitchen; don’t even think about it. She’ll gut you like a fish— and it’d better not involve one of her prized stainless-steel kitchen knives, or else she’ll go ahead and serve you for dinner. She dominates the cooking turf— and possibly you, if you talk bad about her not having “A-Class” cooking skills.

            Like I did, a couple years ago: Egotistical and clueless, fourteen-year-old me tried to be Superman and insisted on cooking some chicken wings for an epic track meet “soirée”. And— lo and behold!— I scorch the hell out of G-ma’s kitchen. Stove, totally ruined. Chicken wings, definitely ruined. She made me swear myself from using the kitchen because of it, too.

            Thus, having friends over will equal definite starvation (unless G-ma says otherwise, like allowing one of my more trustworthy friends fix something).

            So instead, she’s been the one bringing me champion breakfasts and strongman dinners for the past two years; she also been sending me to school with her awesome homemade “TLC” lunches for the past eight.

            “And speaking of it being Friday…” My grandmother had a finger at her chin. She poked at it thoughtfully.

            What about it being Friday, now…?

            “Have you seen the time, dear?” my grandmother asked, as sweet as can be. Her gray-rimmed walnut eyes were sparkling, in a way that was too super-cute for a woman her age. She was batting her eyelashes at me in the same manner.

            I flinch, a little unnerved by how cutely creepy she looked. Her “mum” lips made her look like a snapping turtle. I could feel an awkward sweat drop trailing from my temple.

            But then, she gets up, pats my head like I’m some puppy, slips back to my bedroom door, and giggle-sighs before disappearing behind it.

            I sensed the hopelessness in her sigh at the end. And as soon as I turn to look at my alarm clock, a deep-seated dread sent more sweat drops springing out of my pores and bolting down my face. “Oh no…! It can’t be…!”

            7:54 was what the clock face read.

            Good thing my breakfast got scoffed down earlier, because I flipped that tray. With me crying big baby tears and screaming like a scared-stiff sissy.

            Because I only had six minutes to get to school. Sure didn’t help that it was some twenty-odd streets away, either. _And_ I was nowhere near dressed?

            “No, not again!” I panic.

            God, somebody shoot me!

* * *

…Okay, maybe not today. Nah. Got a big test today. In history, to boot. Oh, joy.

            “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmbiflob!” I was in such a hurry I couldn’t even panic right! “Must. Make. Beeline. To…!”

**KA-WHUMP!—** “Bwah!”

            Now is _not_ a good time to bump into somebody, Sonic! Be courteous, and kindly leave them in a frickin’ dust cloud, already!

            “Oh, hey! I am _so_ so sorry!” I can’t help emphasizing. I manage to get to my feet and shake off the accident with an, “I’d love to apologize in full length, but I have to get to school, like right now, so— !”

            “So apologize, so I ain’t gotta get on you and beat you down.”

            My hurriedness was frozen by the callous cracking of the knuckles of…well, Knuckles. Surprisingly, he’s as late to class as I am for a change. He’s always at school really early, training in the gym for a kickboxing match, usually. There must not be anything major scheduled right now?

            I lift my hands in defense. “Ahh-bah-bah-hah…? Eh-hem, uhh…? Yeah. Whoops. Sorry. My bad, Knuxster.”

            “Yeah. That’s what I thought I heard.” The ballsy echidna narrows his eyes at me. “Right?”

            “Hah, yep!” comes another one of my nasally replies. With my hands still up, like I was proving myself to be unarmed. Oddly, my smile feels a whole lot like Granma’s “mum” lips.

            “Hmph. Whatever. Let’s go,” the upperclassman says nonchalantly.

            I notice, after blinking a little, that he’s going on up the street, like I don’t even exist. I huff a pouting sigh. _"You just told me to go with you…? Don’t just go on and ditch me!"_ An anger vein begins to throb at my temple.

            But I ended up deciding to stop caring about my “perfect” attendance record and just walk with the guy.

* * *

Good gracious, that exam’s finally gone with the wind! Woo-hoot! Everyone in the room is praising to the highest of heavens, cheering ridiculously. Girls are crying and holding each other, guys have formed an ever-growing mosh pit for our history teacher, where he was eventually lifted up and carried around. Much to his confusion, no doubt.

            It wasn’t even a midterm. Can’t wait to see what _that’ll_ look like.

            And now, the rest of the school day is kicking in. Like in my head.

            The halls are as cramped as ever, mostly with seniors— unlike me— because they’re all prepping for graduation exams and whatnot. Those don’t happen for another couple weeks. I still think they’ve got it easy, even with the whole “senioritis” epidemic that’s going on.

            Especially with the head members of the Student Council, namely Wave, Rouge…and even my “little brother”, Tails.

            The kid’s a prodigy. I mean, look at him— exploring the vastness of the big-kids’ realm at the tender age of nine (and three-quarters, if you count his birthday being in the fall of the first trimester). He’s got wicked-high smarts; wicked shame that I have to ask him to tutor me on the weekends, though. Bweh…!

            And then, there are those incorrigible “she-devils”, Rouge the Bat and Wave the Swallow. Those two seem to get Tails into the weirdest trouble. Poor kid. I know he’s in high school now, but c’mon— he’s still nine! You just don’t persuade a nine-year-old to go “adventuring” in a girls’ bathroom…! Ack, the nerve of those weirdo super-seniors!

            There are other friend-classmates that I have, too; even though they’re a class under me. I think Silver and Jet are cool guys, and that’s all that matters. Although Jet’s pretty mouthy and Silver’s kind of a klutz, they’re awesome. Even the silent exchange student from Japan— Espio, I think?— is super-cool. I think he and Knuckles have a silent martial arts beef with each other…?

            Ninjitsu vs. kickboxing: Which style reigns superior?

            Hmm…? On a side note, though, there’s a relatively new face that I don’t see all too often. It seems like this guy is in the same graduating class as me, but I barely see him around. And I’m left to question how his grades are.

            I don’t really know his name, but the girls love him! They scream it all the livelong day, but it’s never stuck with me. How can they be head-over-heels with this guy— how are they _seeing_ him! ‘Cause _I_ can’t!

            So I decide to leave it for the time being, and focus on other stuff. Like eating. And sleeping. Studying. _Learning._ Actually _going to class._ Unlike this phantom enigma these clueless girls are swooning over…!

            …Okay, I thought I had left it alone. What is wrong with girls nowadays? They’ll swoon over anybody _they_ think is “cool” or “popular”, “sexy” or “hot”, “smoking”, just what-the-hell-ever!

            Can I _please…_ knock some sense into these girls? Just one good hardy smack on the noggin? C’mon! Please?

            Ah, jeez, fine! No violence!

* * *

It would appear that our favorite “mystery man” has finally decided to show his face, and it turns out that he’s going to attend our school’s track meet. It’ll be a tournament of sorts— just less “tournament”-y and more “championship”-y. Whatever that means, right? It’s coming up this weekend, and I’m the track team’s ace in the hole. Because I don’t just run; I sprint, too. I’m not sure why he’s attending, since he doesn’t seem like the type to go to anything sports-related, let alone track and field.

            But, the opening ceremonies were getting underway, so I took the liberty of heading off before Granma had a chance to grab her keys.

            Running has always been a great love of mine. I think I got that love of “The Rush” from my old man…? That’s my Granpa on my dad’s side. It’s strange that neither my mom nor dad had that hot-bloodedness. Considering the natures of both my grandparents, it makes me wonder if it just skips a generation?

            But, there again, I digress.

            Holy Bajeebers, this crowd’s huge! Looks like everyone and their grandmothers from _everywhere_ are here! And speaking of grandmothers…heh, my G-ma’s just getting here, too. Spry and peppy as usual, I see; though with another one of her own usual unusual twists. Sure she’s in her normal outdoor clothes…but are the blue-and-white pompoms really necessary? She’s totally ready to cheer me and my team on, and I’m so pumped! Yeah!

            Representing my high school are me and my seven teammates. We’re racing against another team from within the region, but they don’t look so tough.

            I mean, really, they actually don’t. But I can’t speak too soon on that; I don’t wanna be too bigheaded before the big race, anyway. But knowing me…heh, good luck, you wannabe speedsters! Nyeh nyeh!

            The rules are simple: three varied trials, best 2-out-of-3 wins. The first one is the 2×50m dash, where the two teams will alternate between the two halves of the track; meaning our team will run one J-side, and the rival team will run the other. After that is the 100m hurdles, and then the ultimate tie-breaker.

            The 3×150m relay. Teamwork is key to winning the best 2-out-of-3, especially if both teams have one event under their belts.

            Oh, would you looky here. There’s some irony in that last statement. Crap.

            “It’s time to put the big-boy shorts on, guys,” I tell my huddle.

            Looks like we’re all in good form. Didn’t think we’d have an actual problem with this, so let’s get serious. They may have scored the second event, but it’s time to bust out our signature “Teamwork-style Upper Combi-Cut”! Oh yeah, we’ve got this in the bag! Although Jared’s lookin’ a bit blue, like lacking in oxygen. So he’s gonna sit this one out. Poor guy; I actually wanted him to run this relay with us. He’s a pretty good shot on the track. Can make a beeline like nobody’s business.

            But he’s _just_ under the par with me, myself, and I. Still, he’s awesome.

            Well, here we go: The relay’s getting underway, and my Granma’s cheering her socks off— literally. Jeez, I think one of them smacked some girl in the face. As for me and my ‘mates Rich and Isaac, we’re rearing to go, too.

            I can just feel my Granpa’s signature Rush boiling out of its simmer. My heart’s racing before I even lift my feet. I’m the last leg, as an ace should be. My anticipation is ridiculous, soaring through the roof and into the sky, I’m so pumped! And I’ve gotta make it count, too. It’s the Regional Championships I’m talking about here! I can’t let my team down, no matter what!

_"Mom…? I can hear you through Granma’s cheers…and in my heart."_ I can feel a solemnity glaze over my eyes as I eagerly await my leg to start.

_I’m thinking back to when I was a little tyke to my mom. The play rug in my room was red and white, the most awesome color combination to my seven-year-old self. Sure, I liked toy cars and action figures like the next 1 st grader._

_But what I loved most of all were the stories Mom would read to me. My favorite book of all time, I had vowed, would have to be “King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table”._

_“It’s the_ bestest _book in the whole wide world!” I can hear myself cheering, kicking and flailing like the happiest little carp Mom had ever seen._

_My mother, being a rather calm and sedate soul, only marveled my enthusiasm and chuckled softly. She had her playful moments, though. “You really do, don’t you?” she would humor me. And I was always a sucker for answering and rambling on about what happens in the book. “Then what’s your favorite part in the book, Sonic?”_

_“That’s easy! I really, really,_ really _like the part where Arthur pulls out Excalibur! That means he’s really strong, ‘cause the sword was stuck in that_ big _rock for, like, a hundred years or something— and he was able to pull it out like ‘Sa-_ shing! _’”— I couldn’t help reenacting the scene— “and it was all glowy and stuff, like a light saber! And it’s so epic, Mom!” Accompanied by the swooshing sounds that a sword, metal or not, would make._

_But Mom was in total delight at the sight and sounds of me being excited. She never got tired of reading that book to me because she never got tired of seeing me happy. My Mom was awesome._

_Too bad she’s long gone now._

_“Sonic?”_

_I stop my fanboy tirade and all the kicking and chopping motions I was making. I blinked at her in the rocking chair. That royal cherry rocking chair I swore I’d never throw away. Her smile was placid and sweet. “Huh, yeah, Mom?”_

_“Do you know why Arthur was able to pull Excalibur out of the stone?”_

_I gaped in surprise. I gasped, “Ah, nope! They never say it in the storybook, so…?” Then, excited all over again. “Wait, do_ you _know why, Mama?”_

_I rarely called her “Mama”, but she never minded it when I did. In fact, she giggled most of the time. I will admit: Mom looked pretty darn adorable when she giggled like that; no wonder Dad married her. But I was seven, so I didn’t pay that much attention to it, then._

_The brightness in her smiling amber eyes. I had a feeling something important was coming._

_“It was because the sword chose him to wield it.”_

_The solemn lilt in her voice. Something made me move closer to her. My own eyes beamed with curiosity and intrigue._

_“And Excalibur chose Arthur because Arthur’s heart was purest and most valiant, of all the noblest knights, bravest steeds, kindest of all hearts.”_

_I rested my chin against her lap. A motherly hand reached over and stroked my quills. I hummed in comfort and admiration. “I’m gonna be your knight in shining armor someday, Mama. The best one you ever had.”_

_I heard another of her, playful and hopeful, giggles. “You already are, Sonic. You’re my precious baby boy, my only baby…my most brave, noble, and kind little sweetheart.”_

_She pulled me up to her lap, and I instantly snuggle against her chest. That warm, caring womanly bosom that always lulled me to sleep whenever I had nightmares, or a bad day at school, or whenever I missed my dad._

_But it never did when I missed her; it never could._

            A pop of a gunshot fires off, and so does Rich, the runner of the first leg. My feet are itching to run. Sweat’s already clinging to my face. I have to wait for Rich and Isaac to finish, though.

            Patience was never a real strong point for me. But my suddenly wandering thoughts are making my mind swim through a blissful, yet bittersweet, memory. I know I was seven at the time, but I did promise Mom that I’d be her knight in shining armor someday. Not literally, of course.

_"I’ll make sure to make you proud, Mom,"_ I promise, with a perk of boyish charm swelling back into my heart. I glance over into the bleachers all around the track, trying to spot two swishing pompoms. _"I’ll be the greatest knight, and son, you’ve ever had. I’m gonna make you happy, like Dad must have, and…?"_

            “You can do it, Sonic-Sweetie! I believe in you! Woo!”

            Heh, found them. I can’t help smirking to myself. _"Just like you and Granma want me to."_

            The rapid footfalls of the racers were swiftly approaching. My rival and I head out to meet the second leg runners. Our paces are pretty even. For now, of course. It’ll all change once that baton is passed.

            Speaking of which, it’s the moment of truth.

            But then, another weird memory flashes before my eyes.

_“Here, Sonic. I want you to have this.”_

_A lone piece of emerald was strung on a tiny black cord. My mom wasn’t one for glamour or gaudery. “Simple and lovely” was her style, and it always worked for her. ‘Cause Dad married her, after all._

_“Let this be your pride and joy from now on. Whenever you need some reassurance, hold this close to your heart, and a miracle will happen.”_

_Sadly contradictory on the day of her funeral, though.'_

            The feel of the baton snaps me out of my reveries. I bolt like the wind, outrunning my competitor. Flawlessly. _"No problem, no problem,"_ the thought in my head repeats. _"I’ve got this! I’ve totally got this!"_

            My feet are on autopilot at this point. My opponent’s biting the dust, and the crowd cheering my team on is going crazy-insane. My Granma’s no stranger to these events. She’s in it with them, and with me and my team. All those after-parties, and get-togethers with my friends, those countless signed fieldtrip slips and chaperoned sporting trips later, it all really paid off.

            Now, all I have to do is cross that finish line. Yeah! Almost home free! C’mon, legs, I know you’re tired of burning, but I’m so close! I can feel it in your bones!

_"C’mon, c’mon, let’s go!"_

            My mother’s necklace finds its way out of my track shirt. That Number 1’s not there for nothing, you know! That bit of emerald light flickers brightly before I snatch it from my neck and into my hand. I pray and hope, beg and plead, and run with all my might. I don’t care if it feels like my heart’s gonna explode— as long as I can make across that finish line…!

            …Wait. Did “Mystery Man” bail?

            But, more importantly…where the hell did the finish line go?!

　

_Oh, Life of Mine…Why You Do?!_


	2. Holy Schnikes, Is This a Dragon?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of his championship track race, Sonic finds himself falling through the sky. Thoroughly confused and fearful for his life, the blue speedster lands on something hard, metallic. And before figuring out what it could possibly be, he realizes that who- or whatever saved him isn't anything he's ever seen before. The hedgehog's life has a wrench in it, and Sonic can't help being baffled, irritated...and very curious. :On Partial Hiatus: Where the hell—?! Wha—Huh—Umm...why am I not falling anymore?

Event Two

 

High school track “ace in the hole” Sonic the Hedgehog found himself falling through the sky, from the sky. His wild yowling overstretched his confusion, as well as the fact that the dark, viridescent canopies below were closing in fast. Albeit all that speed went into falling, the adrenaline coursing through his blood excited him. He was able to turn his “sissy” screams into rowdy howls.

            “Yahoo! Yeah!”

            He remembered the pendant in his hand and retied the string around his neck. Green umbrage was closing in fast. The altitude was so high up, he couldn’t tell how much closer he was getting.

 _"I have no idea how I’m gonna survive this, much less land safely…but this is so_ freaking _awesome for some reason!"_

            “Wah-hoo!” the hedgehog teen wailed, half-excited and half-terrified.

            Seeing that he wasn’t that much closer to ground level yet, Sonic decided to perform aerial tricks. Flips and spins, and twists and turns. Wisps of early-morning cloud whipped in his wake. He looked like a dancing corkscrew falling through the sky. But the earth was still getting closer and closer.

            And Sonic miscalculated the fact that those spins and twists had made him plummet faster. So the ground was threatening to smash him to pieces.

            “Whoops. Looks like I made myself fall even faster now…!” A nervous chuckle escaped as he scratched the back of his head. “Crap!” he bellowed now.

_"Crap, crap, crap, I’m gonna die! I’m totally gonna die! Aagh!"_

            But then, there was a catch. As in capture from his demise. Accompanied by a sharp jarring sensation in his head. The blow put the blue hedgehog in a daze. He was able to piece together the pain in his head and whatever hard thing he landed on, though.

            “Holy jeez, that felt like…?” came Sonic’s peevish groan. He held his head and blinked.

            Wildly, it seemed. For he found himself still in the air, over the ground that was ready to kill him.

            He gawked, mouth and eyes agape. “What the hell?! I’m flying? What in the…world is…?”

            Sonic sent his eyes down and found a long scarlet cushion. Around it were metallic plates, pearlescent beige in color, and it all looked like it was made for sitting in. Even though he was still laying flat on it. Off to the sides of him were two wide wings, similar to a bat but not really. Better, more like. They flapped in simultaneity.

            “Am I…on the back of…some kind of…creature?” the bamboozled teen wanted to know as he struggled to get to his feet. As he groped for balance, he pulled on something like a reign, and whatever’s back he was on tilted violently. Sonic yelped from nearly sliding off the creature and falling to his doom again. Another reign was caught in the nick of time. Consequently, the flying creature’s path was able to straighten back out.

            “Holy crap, that was a close one…! Whew!”

            The flying beast let out what sounded like a soft, albeit aggravated, trill.

            Sonic was able to find his footing on the creature’s back, in between its great twin wings. Massive emerald shards were implanted into the elbows; Sonic blinked in confusion. He held onto the reigns. _"Nice and taut…like a horse, right?"_ he figured hopelessly as a massive sweat drop fell from the back of his head.

            The massive winged beast chirped in annoyance.

 _"Although this is_ clearly _not a horse."_ An eyebrow twitched upward. “Well, umm…it’s obvious you’re not a horse, I take it?” he directed his wondering thought at the beast. “It looks like you’re made of metal, too…so what are you exactly?” The slightly nerve-wracked hedgehog was scratching the back of his head again.

            The beast’s shrill cry echoed through the air, and at the height they were at, it was like the whole world could’ve heard it. Whatever world Sonic was on, since it did look very unfamiliar: This side of wherever he was seemed to be rousing from under the nocturnal veil, for its bluish-indigo tint was just beginning to recede.

            Be that as it may, he was going to get familiar with it quite soon. Because that flying creature was soaring right at it. Sonic screamed his “sissy-girl” scream, the rush of turbulence ballooning his face.

            One thing about the creature’s cry was it sounded like one of a bird of prey, like an eagle. But Sonic was able to detect some type of sentience in it somehow, but was confused by it because it also sounded like a nonviolent bird, too— like a lark or a canary. Due to Sonic’s instincts, however, he worried about the creature’s wild flying and their fast-shrinking altitude instead. The nighttime treetops threatened to whip at his face.

            The yelps of pain coming from the teenager only confirmed this: It seemed the treetops— vines, branches, and all— had a shared “disliking” for the blue hedgehog.

            A broad clearing made its way closer, and the winged beast flapped to a sharp halt. Its metal talons scraped into the soil, the heavy frame skidded to a halt and unknowingly flung Sonic from its back.

            “Wah-ah-ah-ah-ahh— Ouch!”

            One last tree was able to have its say; poor Sonic landed front-first against its tough bark.

            Upon seeing the teenager sliding down front-first as well, the creature’s massive wings folded and its mischievous chirps snipped at Sonic’s ego.

            But Sonic’s ego was out cold, just like the rest of him.

* * *

Sometime later, Sonic awakened to other avian caws and insect chirps. His bright emerald gaze was bleary from the concussion he must’ve suffered after hitting that tree. The low moans he let out were filled with dizziness and annoyance from the throbbing in his head. The blue hedgehog sat up and caressed his head lightly.

            “Bajeebers, that dream was so wild…!”

            With the hand that supported him, he felt something metallic. The oddly familiar metal stopped Sonic mid-sentence. He groped around the metal spot. There was a peculiar warmth coming from it. He blinked wildly. “Huh?”

            Being craned in front of him was a vine branch of fruit. The berries on it were plump and fresh-looking, complete with a morning sheen and dew. They were dark bluish-purple in the fleeting darkness. Sonic blinked, furrowing his brows and reaching up for the branch. “Grapes?” he thought out loud. But something else stopped his train of curiosity.

            It derailed after he froze to look up next to him, and found a face to the very same creature from his “dream”. It had four piercing green eyes, two in each “eye socket”— much like the alien war robots from iconic _manga_.

            And Sonic could feel every single one of them burrowing into his soul.

            Sweat bullets bolting down his face, Sonic greeted the creature with a, “H-Hi there…?”

            The creature’s eyes didn’t even flinch.

            “Umm, heh…a-are those for me?” He pointed at the grapes.

            The beast’s streamline head lowered, craning the grape cluster closer to Sonic and onto the grass patch within Sonic’s crossed legs.

            “Gah! Hey! Watch where you’re pokin’ that beak-thing of your— !”

            Dread silenced the hedgehog teen this time. A staccato-like guttural sound clucked from his throat. As the creature pulled its head away, it huffed a mischievous squawk. Sonic was still gulping, but the mechanical avian beast didn’t seem to care. It reclined its head back on the dewy turf. Its beige eyeshades simulated dormancy.

            “Deh…deh-eh…deh-deh…deh-ehh…!” Sonic’s terror wasn’t letting his brain process anything that had happened correctly. There were just a couple things that bothered him in that moment of sheer speechlessness. Within it, his face paled, with eyes blanked by total whiteness. Crickets snickered their “silent” chitters in the background.

            “Holy schnikes…!” the teen was able to muster an interjection under his breath. “That body type, that huge wingspan, that ferocious gaze…! This…this thing is…some kind of dragon…?”

            The halfway-discovered metal dragon huffed another blunt squawk, not looking back at him.

            “But…!” Then Sonic suddenly bellowed to the heavens above him, “Where the hell are my clothes?!”

            A massive blue-and-white marble seemed to be floating up there too, way beyond the uppermost expanse of— whatever sky Sonic and his new alien-dragon savior were under. Accompanying it were a trio of small, different-colored moons. A pure white one seemed to orbit around the huge marble, but the other two were much closer. And one was green, while the other was red.

　

_Holy Schnikes, This Is a Dragon!_


	3. That's a Cool Name...but Who the Heck Are They?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonic finds his confusion and irritation simmering into very honest curiosity. Escaflowne, a mystical and seemingly powerful entity, shows the hedgehog slivers of compassion in the midst of his own bafflement. He helps him figure out that this new world is indeed inhabited by living creatures, as well as people... People who are familiar, in looks and in sound, yet not in recollection. :On a Lesser Hiatus: Escaflowne, huh? Nice to meet ya! ...Can't say the same for these guys, though...!

Event Three

 

“So, are we just waiting for someone to find us?”

            Sonic was popping those grapes into his mouth. He had decided not to mind the utter strangeness of his situation. Even though he had no idea where he was or how he ended up there, he put his concern aside. He was fairly curious, so he decided to interrogate the metal dragon.

            Who happened to remain nonchalant about the whole ordeal. It huffed a sigh.

            Sonic saw a strange reddish dust waft from its mouth. He blinked at the sparkles partially revealed by the first light. “Hey, are you gonna answer me or what?” the blue hedgehog huffed as well, an anger vein swelling at his temple. “Does anybody even know we’re here?” His eye twitched. “They should, on account of that sissy squeal _you_ let out.”

            A sharp caw came from the dragon. The sentience in it hinted at a slight mirroring of Sonic’s own attitude. If it had any blood vessels, Sonic was sure a duplicate anger vein would’ve appeared.

            “Don’t get mad at me. _You’re_ the one who saved me. And now, you’ve gotta deal with all the questions I have.” The hedgehog’s eyebrow twitched. “Got it?”

            The beige mechanical dragon lifted its head and paused.

            But Sonic didn’t stop his roll. “Yeah, that’s right! I’ve got a flurry of questions to ask you!” He was pointing at the dragon. “And since it seems like you can understand everything I’m saying, you’re the only one here who can answer me…and I’m _not_ gonna take your silent treatment for an answer!” he yelled at the sight of the creature putting its head back down on the soil.

            A somewhat arrogant snort came from the dragon, before it craned its reflective emerald gaze back at Sonic. It chirred at him, as if to daunt him. And its birdlike trill came off as creepy, so Sonic flinched. From behind, the dragon’s massive tail curved around and nudged Sonic closer to its face.

            “Gah, what the— ! What’re you doing?” Sonic cried, trying to claw his way over the broad tail. “Stop it, this is freaky!”

            The hedgehog flailed around, baying for help and overly exaggerating his nonexistent harm.

            But another branch of grapes appeared in front of Sonic’s face.

            After he shyly took them into his hands, a large leaf was draped on top of Sonic’s head. The teenager blinked a little, confused by how the dragon could be tending to him like this. Even with how annoying and rude Sonic knew he was being, the flying metal reptilian was…?

            Coddling him.

            Sonic wrapped the big leaf around him like a blanket. “Umm…thanks. But if you don’t like me, ‘cause I’m being a jerk, why are you…y’know, being nice to me?” He had shrugged, tilting his head to the side.

            And the dragon mimicked him.

            “Huh?” Sonic blinked again. Then, straightening his head again, with the dragon doing the same, _"Is this thing…copying me?"_

            Sonic initiated an experiment: In order to confirm his theory, he moved his head at various angles. Tilting from one side to the other, the dragon mimed him; pivoting the neck left and right, the dragon mimicked. It even nodded and shook its head in the same manner Sonic did. An intriguing smirk flashed on Sonic’s face, and he scratched at his chin.

            “Heh, you _are_ copying me!” he exclaimed, pointing at the winged creature. “And, y’know…I think it’s kinda cool! Are you usually this way with people— like me?”

            The dragon nodded.

            “Whoa, you really _can_ understand me…and this sense of personality I’m getting from you is definitely there, too. So tell me…” Sonic pulled his legs into a cross, like a curious child ready to hear a story. He tucked the leaf’s end folds under his arms. “Are you okay with telling me your name?”

            Suddenly, a musical chirrup warbled from the dragon’s throat with a couple of robust wing flaps. Its slavering tongue lapped at the face of his new companion. The hedgehog teen was taken by surprise at the texture and moistness of the creature’s tongue. Although the beast was, what appeared to be, entirely mechanical it obviously still possessed organic elements. And the massive reptile was suddenly playful, nuzzling Sonic’s face and tickling it with its serpentine tongue.

            “Gah-hah! Hey, quit it! That feels weird!” Sonic laughed. Petting the flying beast’s head, he added, “Heh, you’re a good dragon, aren’t you? Sorry for being a jerk, and thinking you were gonna eat me. Kinda looks like we’ve got quite a bit in common…huh, Escaflowne?” He chuckled, grinning.

            More happy tweets trilled from the dragon’s vocal cords. It nuzzled Sonic’s cheek with its own in a friendly manner. Its tail swayed back and forth, like a cat— albeit, a mechanical one. The mannerisms the dragon exhibited were a combination of a snake, a cat, a dog, and a weird kind of eagle.

            And an equally weird sense of affection mushroomed in Sonic’s heart.

            “Aww…you sound kinda cute when you’re playful, Escaflowne.” Sonic stroked Escaflowne’s forehead. “But earlier, with that _‘alluring’_ gaze of yours…” With a couple handsome flicks of his eyebrows, he went on with, “You weren’t, ahh, trying to flirt with me or something, were ya?”

            Escaflowne’s mute gaze stared Sonic down; a strange vibe in the air hovered between their faces. A perfect place for the iconic _manga_ ellipsis.

            “Escaflowne is _male,_ young sir.”

            A startled shingle flashed up and down Sonic’s spinal column. Escaflowne, on the other hand, calmly peered over his shoulder and tilted his head.

            From beyond the brush and into the clearing came a trio of armor-clad newcomers. Two were fairly masculine, while another seemed to have a more feminine build.

            Although it was still hard to tell in the early morn light.

            The male closest approaching had dark-silver body armor, a coordinating decorated helm, and a flaring midnight cowl-neck cape. His pauldrons were embellished with Celtic knots, as well as his helm, gauntlets, arm- and shin guards. The graphitic residue on the helm’s visor gave a rusted allure to the armored warrior. That allure was enhanced by the very broad saber at his right hip.

            An ebony steed clopped up to its master’s side. The midnight brocades of gilt twine around its neck bore a golden shield on the banner; engraved on it was a snakelike dragon. It snorted as its master’s armored bootees pressed into one of Escaflowne’s skid marks. Petting its snout, the male newcomer went on with, “What’s more, he would never _consider_ courting such an unsightly lady like yourself.”

            “What the— ! _‘Unsightly lady’?!_ ” Several anger veins pulsed at various places on Sonic’s body. “You’ve got some nerve calling _me_ unsightly, and a lady, no less!”

            The crimson-tinged warrior fastened his steed’s reigns around a curved boulder that was nearby. The ebony saddle horse whinnied before dipping down to chew on the tall grass.

            “I can’t even see _you!_ ”

            The other two armed soldiers also secured their steeds. The copper-clad male sported an emerald version of the dark-silver male’s cape. The cape’s embroidery was gilded as well, but the neck clasp was an animal paw instead of a crescent moon. Underneath were two hilts; those ax-like blades looked dangerous crisscrossed at his lower back.

            His and his comrade’s horses grazed there at the tree trunk, snapping up some tall grass and wildflowers. A small smile played across the muzzle of the more feminine sword wielder. Her armor had a more pristine luster of silver, a turquoise stone bejeweled her helm, and at her left hip was a rapier. Her cape was rich aubergine, also gilded, and with a rose-patterned clasp. She petted a hand along the manes of both the roan and pinto saddle horses.

            She and her copper-clad partner approached their third member, who had the very tip of his broad saber pointed at Sonic’s nose. The apparent swordswoman took the right side of him, while the other, slightly brawnier, swordsman took the left. They saw the large leaf around Sonic’s shoulders fall, both his hands up, palms open.

            “He’s quite the boisterous one, isn’t he?” the swordswoman remarked, placing a hand to her armored hip. She had brought out her rapier and aimed the tip at Sonic’s face as well.

            “All bark and no bite,” the copper dual-blade wielder attested. Then, showing Sonic one of his own ax-bladed swords, he addressed him with, “State your name and your master…rogue.”

            “Uhh…? My name is Sonic the Hedgehog, and I have no master…?” he shrugged a little.

            Sonic, still very confused, could not discern anyone’s eyes, but he had the strangest feeling that he could recognize them. Nonetheless, his own eyes gleamed calmly.

            A breeze wafted by, picking up the three sword wielders’ cape hems. Golden embroideries flickered. Bushels of wild herbs crashed against each other, and a few grapes were pinched off the vine by the zephyr’s nippiness.

            And Escaflowne’s chirrups were making a resonant harmony with the wind, a wonderful ensemble. Something in Sonic was stirred; he had a feeling that Escaflowne was defending him.

            The saber’s huge blade was lowered from Sonic’s nose. Sonic blinked, listening to Escaflowne’s birdsong and watching the three newcomers’ reactions unfold. They all lowered their weapons and lifted their heads. The dawn clouds were marbleizing from sleepy indigoes and blues to rich pinks and orange; the sun was rising.

            And the gigantic blue moon had set out of sight.

            They were listening to Escaflowne’s musical cheeping.

            Sonic blinked in confusion again. The wind around him warmed, and a pleasance had enwrapped him. ‘Escaflowne…?’ The rising sunlight brightened the gleams of fascination in the blue hedgehog’s eyes. ‘What is…this song?’

            “Escaflowne’s Dragonsong…? He’s chosen the Spiriting Prayer…?”

            Sonic looked up, and watched the three swords being withdrawn: the apparent leader’s to his right hip, the copper soldier’s to its sister low back mount, and the lady soldier’s to her left hip.

            The leader cautiously approached the metal dragon Escaflowne. He waited, seeing that the dragon’s mighty wings had been brandished, in a swanlike arabesque. The skylark resonance ebbed out. His song was over, and now he was staring down the dark-silver swordsman.

            Not at all bothered by Escaflowne’s stare, the warrior asked, “Are you sure he is the one we’ve been looking for?”

            Escaflowne replied with a happy trill. He lowered his head toward Sonic and waited.

            Sonic jumped at Escaflowne’s close proximity and petted his head gently. He chuckled as he felt a rumble against his shoulder from the dragon’s throat. “You purr like a kitten, too, I see…?”

            The female soldier seemed curious.

            “Astonishing.”

            Escaflowne turned its face to the dark-silver swordsman; Sonic soon did the same. He saw that the three mysterious newcomers had convened into a group huddle. According to their hand gestures and what few facial expression he could discern, Sonic assumed they were whispering about him.

            And his mysterious appearance in this strange new world.

 _'I hope they’re not plotting to kill me or something!"_ Sonic’s mind fluttered into a slight panic. _"I just got here! I haven’t even gotten a_ chance _to do anything, let alone anything_ wrong _!"_

            “You! Rapscallion!”

            Sonic would’ve jumped ten feet in the air, if Escaflowne hadn’t calmed him with his interesting catlike purring. He couldn’t stop Sonic’s fur from bristling, however. There was a strictness in the copper warrior that irked Sonic. But after remembering those huge swords, Sonic made a candid embarrassed face. A sweat drop dripped from his temple.

            Bronzing copper armor shimmered in the still dawning sunlight. But the face behind the metal grille shocked the blue hedgehog. Tanzanite eyes pierced him like two judgmental daggers; they were invasively scrutinizing him. The serious glower was unmistakable, and a name from the most recent caddies in Sonic’s memory echoed out.

            And Sonic had to call it out. “Knuckles?!”

            The faces the first and third accompaniment, as well as Escaflowne, made them look utterly flummoxed. Not to mention, the reddish-armored swordsman along with.

            “Whoa, no way! How’d you get here?!” Sonic was carrying on at the expense of everyone else’s annoyance. “You’ll never believe how _I_ did in a million years! I’m actually not all that sure, but let’s get the hell out! C’mon, if we work together, I’m sure our two brilliant minds can hatch a plan! So quick, tell me— just where the heck are we?!”

            “Silence, you!”

            The humongous ax-blade swung back in Sonic’s face, nearly nicking off his nose. The blue hedgehog forced a gulp.

            “You will _only_ address me as 2nd Viceroy-Knight to the Kingdom of Fanelia, Sir Gawain McAüschlun of Gael-Mar, you cretin. I know not this ‘Knuckles’ whom you’ve mistaken me for.”

            There was a slight air of self-defensive pride in the echidna’s self-introduction. Sonic gawked at whom he’d thought was his friend a bit stupidly. It was only for a moment. Long enough for Escaflowne to tilt his head.

            It was soon replaced with raucous laughter.

            “Ah ha ha! That’s a good one! I always knew you were badass, but you’re not _that_ legendary!” The blue hedgehog was rolling around on the ground. “This is rich— that’s _so_ rich! Good Lordie-Canordie, my sides hurt!”

            The “Knuckles” doppelganger made a face of pure exasperation. The shadow of his grille darkened his eyes. An upper corner of his lip was convulsing from embarrassment, flashing a fang.

            “C’mon, Mr. Bad Boy! You can come up with a better quip than that, can’t you?— Wah!”

            “I said silence, you!”

            Not expecting the other’s overreaction to be holding him at ax-point, Sonic threw his hands up again, gesturing his surrender.

            “Keep calm, Gawain,” the silver-gilt female waved him down, using a svelte, motherly tone. “I’m sure this comical lightheartedness precedes a lackadaisical apprehension.” She lowered his sword with her own. “Withdraw your weapon. Don’t sink to his level of immaturity.”

            “Hey, hold up! I didn’t do anything to that guy!” Sonic snapped.

            Escaflowne and the warrior leader became onlookers in that little while. The dragon’s head tilted further to one side, with the dark-silver leader pressing his fingers to his forehead; he was sighing hopelessly. The three saddle horses had looked up from grazing to witness the small altercation. But they went right back to grazing, clopping to a different patch of turf. Escaflowne chirped in annoyance.

            “Forgive my colleague here, young sir. As well as me, for I haven’t introduce myself.” The apparent feline woman bowed modestly. “My name is Percival Ladriènne of Mercrusia, though I serve the Kingdom of Fanelia as 3rd Viceroy-Knight.”

            “Well well. Hello there.”

            The lady knight, Percival, found Sonic in front of her face suddenly. His face was invading the space of her own. Baffled by the advance, she gaped. He had her hand in his, gentlemanly and courteously caressing it.

            “Isn’t it strange that you’re not a Vice _reine_ -Knight instead? I mean, even a tough little lady like yourself needs to be addressed properly…right?” He kissed the silver plate that protected her hand. Upon seeing her timid blush, he added, “Ahem, ah…pleasure to, uh, make your acquaintance, Miss Percival.”

            “Actually, sir, that is my proper address. As a knight under the Fanelian Code of Chivalry, that is the correct preface. It purposely disregards gender identification in order to uphold a clear sense of equity within the hierarchy.” She gave a questioning look, tenderly taking away her hand. “Do you not study that principle in knights’ school?” She sauntered off, heading toward her horse, the overcast pinto draped with rich purple gilt cords.

            Sonic, silenced by her correction, blinked a little. Her hand was gone, but his own was pining for hers. “Wait…did she say Code of Chivalry? As in… _actual_ knights and ladies and nobility and stuff?!”

            “Where are your manners, cretin?! Address her with utmost respect! What is the matter with you?!” the brawnier knight, Gawain, shrieked at him.

            “Nothing’s the matter with me— and stop calling me a cretin, you jerk-face!” Sonic snapped back.

            Sparks were firing off between the quarrelers. Fists were prone and ready to flash back and forth. Even though the echidna’s metal fists had the literal advantage of beating Sonic to a bloody pulp. Gritted fangs glinted in the creeping sunlight, both soon-to-be brawlers growling in each other’s faces. Sonic didn’t care about the chances of losing; he just wanted to win.

            And Escaflowne made a dismal chirrup for a sigh. He craned his head down to the ground. The dark-silver knight beside him took in the sight of the dragon’s embarrassment. The grille over his eyes didn’t allow the rest of his face to be discerned. So, a questioning huff had curled from his muzzle.

            “You’re absolutely sure of that?”

            Escaflowne veered his eyes slowly from the bickered duo to the knight who’d asked. Although his eyes couldn’t be seen past the antiqued visor, the dragon could sense his mortification being shared. Catching on to the questioning assurance, another dismal chirrup came. Escaflowne pulled Sonic’s leaf cloak over his face in attempts to hide his grimace. More chirps reverberated underneath, making the leaf edges flutter.

            Percival looked on, walking the three steeds back to where they’d came. Her visor veiled the blatant vexation she held for her comrade and the newly found “rapscallion.” She sighed roughly. But soon she saw the knight in antiqued silver, the assumed leader, moving toward the source of escalating temperaments. She blinked, keeping the horses steady and calm.

            “Stand down, Gawain.”

            The fiery echidna warrior snapped his glare over at the approaching soldier. Sonic did the same, but froze at the sight of him.

            Of him unsheathing his huge weapon and leveling it at his nose once again. “Under the aegis of Sir Lancelot Malfreid, 1st Viceroy-Knight to the Kingdom of Fanelia, I hereby place you under arrest, rogue.”

            “Wait, what?” the blue “rapscallion” spat out.

* * *

Soon after did Sonic find himself, hog-tied, by chainlike binds. The binds were odd because they were tree vines, but they felt thick, like heavy braids. Try and try as he might, there was no way Sonic was getting out of them, either.

            This thorny mess he’d gotten himself ensnared in.

            “Hey, wait!” the poor hedgehog cried. “I haven’t done anything! I _just_ got here!”

            He was trying to emphasize his troubles. He howled to the heavens, but it was useless; his captors merely toted him along. Each knight’s steed had a harness tied to their saddle horns; it most certainly didn’t help that they were dragging him through the dirt.

 

_And Why the Heck Are They Arresting Me?!_


	4. Hope I Catch a Lucky Break…Since I’m a Newb and All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A passel of retold faces has captured Sonic! He's under arrest merely for existing in a place he'd never known was there...but the air sways toward misfortune. Bold and unthinking, the knights engage another passel of retold faces: Though, they are the faces of bewitching enemies. A battle has erupted, and poor Sonic is completely helpless. :On a Slighty Lesser Hiatus: Darn you, medieval coppers! First, you cuff me...and now you're protecting me?! Make up your minds—sweet Mother!

Event Four

 

Apparently, morning was slow to start. The overhanging clouds changed colors and formation, but the sun hadn’t completely made it over the horizon yet. Framed with nothing but tree line after tree line, poor Sonic was left to question what time it really was.

 _"Either time is moving really slowly, or I’ve just got the time wrong, ‘cause it doesn’t look like nighttime or daytime…more like somewhere in between."_ Sonic blinked, darting his curious emerald gaze up at the sky. He caught Escaflowne’s great wings swoop like a flash overhead. He furrowed his brows a little. _"This place is weird, sure enough…"_

            The forest swayed: Its trees were a willowy grade of limber, which made Sonic easily mistaken a limb for a vine and vice versa. The shadows that played within the wilderness’s awakening creeped Sonic out without a doubt. Animal chitters and birdsongs signaled the beginning of a sunlit day, but the morning’s eerie vagueness made Sonic believe that every living thing knew he existed. It was an awkward, terrifying feeling.

            But not one of the soldiers nor their steeds seemed to mind.

 _"Everything’s conspiring against me— probably including them!"_ Another sweat drop fell from the side of his head. With a furtive eye, he turned to see the three armored swordsmen trailing alongside him, without a care in the world about it. Their hands guarded their hilts, however. His brow twitched. _"Jeebers, these guys really think I’m a criminal…! They’ve been dragging me this entire time: Aren’t they tired, ‘cause it feels like my back’s got skid marks…!"_

            “I’m sure it is around here…”

            Sonic paused and watched the copper and silver knights, Gawain and Percival, turn their sights toward their leader, Lancelot. The color of his long cape was finally caught by the light: Royal midnight-blue. It shimmered like velvet, but swayed like an airy silk. It fascinated Sonic to a degree.

            The roan stallion whinnied curtly. Sonic’s attention wandered from each knight’s visor. Just below did one grimace appear; it was that of Gawain.

            “You are sure of your judgment this time…Lancelot?” came the crimson knight’s growl.

            It wasn’t hard for Sonic to sense the chiding bite in the echidna’s comment. But an implicit gnarl could be detected not only by Sonic, but by Percival, and even Lancelot as well.

            Animosity.

            “We’ve scoured this area many a time before, yet nothing’s turned up…because your skills in guidance and direction are _lacking,_ Lancelot.”

            That cloud of hidden frustration grew. And Percival turned her sights away. Sonic, on the other hand, listened in silently. He preoccupied his eyes by looking around some more.

            “The last time we were here, I felt an unerring presence. Like a call, it resounded through these woods. The smell of lake water looms throughout here, but I was never able to pinpoint its source…?”

            “These woods are known to disconcert weary travelers easily, Lancelot.” Sonic sensed a hint of disrespect from Gawain. “And all those times erstwhile, you’ve come here alone, hell-bent on finding it…to claim for _yourself._ ”

            “Now is not the time to speak of this, Sir Gawain,” Percival stopped him. Her motherly scolding managed to lull him into a bitter growl. “We must ensure this rogue’s detainment immediately. He has no allegiance with any of the surrounding kingdoms, or so he claims. We must make sure he isn’t a threat, and never becomes one.”

            “I’m harmless, I tell you! I’m not even armed!” Sonic struck out again defensively. “I don’t have anything on me!”

            “Well, that’ll just make your life _easier_ for us to claim.”

            An unseasonable briskness whipped through the grove, taking hold of the knights’ capes and their steeds’ banners. It chilled the dew on the leaves and vines, brushes and flora. The saddle horses neighed, bucking closer together. Tiny crystalline snow even bit into the warriors’ armor. Percival saw the damage it was doing and quickly assessed the danger.

            “I know this Bitter Cold all too well…” she hissed lowly, her breaths visible vapors.

            Sonic ducked down as best he could. He threw his eyes shut. And when he snapped them open again, his binds had frozen and were cut. Free hands ruffling both arms now, Sonic shivered. A thin saber blade flashed in front of him, but as a protective gesture. Its blade sparked with a fiery gleam.

 _"Huh? Is her sword…glowing?"_ Sonic was able to get to his feet and move closer to her back.

            Then, a dual-toned cackling radiated all around the grove. The ice-tipped willows struggled to sway in that embittered wind. All the flora and shrubbery around them were completely stilled by it as well. The dreadful cacophony shook them.

            And Sonic sensed foreboding danger from it. “Who’s there? Show yourselves!” Sonic ordered.

            The three steeds raced away at the signal of their masters. They dashed through the remainder of the grove, and were able to escape without trouble.

            Lancelot and Gawain moved in closer to Percival. Altogether, they armed themselves and formed a triangular shield around Sonic. Gawain’s fierce fang gritted; Lancelot was keeping a calm and watchful eye out for any movement.

            “We don’t take orders from _shorties_ like you!”

            Sonic flinched and threw his sights upward. “Was that— !”

            “Look out!”

            Before Sonic could realize what was going on, Lancelot had whipped his cape over both their heads. He kept the blue hedgehog tucked underneath. Percival and Gawain teamed up and unleashed a combined flurry of fire and earth attacks, respectively. In all directions, they fired their attacks in successive synchronicity, working in a style similar to an afterimage. After earth came fire, which became manmade meteors aimed at precise targets. They collided with the enemies’ attacks.

            “Ha ha hah! You won’t beat us with those puny attacks!”

            Percival moved into an elegant stance. "Pyracantha: _Ignire_." She whisked the rapier's tip through the air to carve an encased Celtic rose. Poised to thrust, she called out, "Laevatein, ignite!" Swiftly, her blade pierced the very middle of the rose. Petals of fire swirled from the shattered pieces. They were then siphoned into her rapier, which consequently blazed with life. A gentle swipe, and warmth glowed within an immediate radius of her. Her helm's turquoise gem brightened.

            Gawain struck a combat stance and brought out both his ax-blades. With blades crossed, he intoned, "Terra Firma: _Conlidam_." He sent each ax into the earth where a pair of Celtic animal paws began to glow. Gawain stepped in front of them, and fell into an endurance stance. "Galatine, shatter!" Then, he bashed each heel into the ground, forcing his dual-blades upward by the sheer power alone. Catching each ax-sword, shattered rock jittered against each blades' edge, sharpening them quickly and with excellent precision. Once more, Gawain crossed his weapons in front of him. A fierce spark had entered his glare.

            Both Percival and Gawain moved, swift and almost blindly into the grove canopies. They pounced from bough to bough, shaking the ice off the graceful limbs. More girlish cackles echoed throughout the grove. Soon after, metal clashed.

            Lancelot huffed, uncovering his cape from over himself and Sonic.

            “Hey, what the heck is going on?!” Sonic demanded an answer.

            “We have been ambushed; we’re under attack!” Lancelot waspishly replied, darting his own sights around. “You, rogue. Stay at my back.”

            “You should’ve learned your lesson by now. This wood is off-limits.”

            Sonic swapped his eyes towards the back of them. Something from behind Lancelot’s grille gave a brief glint.

            A feminine build could be seen within the white shadows. A scantily clad warrior with sard gems encrusting her ebon circlet, form-fitting basque, pauldrons, arm- and leg guards. She looked fairly able-bodied, strong, a brawler— as Lancelot could recall. Some kind of long pole was balanced across both shoulders. She looked like an echidna, like Gawain. Only her dreadlocks were held back by a strange helmet-like headband.

            “You lot never learn. All of you sicken me. I’m going to grind you to bits, and scatter them everywhere. So _no one_ can find them.”

            “Whoa…!” Sonic crept further behind the antiqued-armored knight. _"This chick looks like she_ really _wants to kill us…?"_ He furrowed his brows a little. He watched the dangerous woman skulk closer, the pole still balanced across her shoulders. But Sonic noticed something odd: _"Hold on. That pole doesn’t have anything heavy or sharp on it, so how can she…?"_

            “You need to flee when I have her distracted. In a predicament such as this, I must honor my subservience as a fellow earthborn over my duties as a Viceroy-Knight.” Lancelot readied himself to fight against his apparent opponent.

            A shock came over Sonic’s face at that moment. “Wait, what do you mean— ?”

            “This place is no longer safe. You will leave here immediately, if you value your life.”

            The charcoaled warrior moved into a combat stance like his fellow swordsmen, and slung the massive saber expertly about before leveling it into his grasp. "Lumen Fluxus: _Purgare_." Beads of ice consequently melted as he danced. They were being plucked from the frostbitten grass. They swirled around, forming a watery mirror in front of him. A Celtic design with three glowing crescents appeared; the largest one was white, an inner nest green, and the smallest red. In the middle's bluish space, Lancelot whipped his saber's blade about. Much like a swords' dance, Lancelot moved. "Arondight, cleanse!" The saber was sent into the mirror, where the water was then absorbed. It gleamed magically in its reversed grip. Cautious fingers ran along the blade's underside before elegantly guarding Lancelot's chest.

            The black-plated female fighter brought up her truncheon. Then, before Sonic could figure out what had happened, the staff had sprouted three spiky flanges. A diabolical yellow aura seeped from it as a mace head formed. Its heavy “clank” dented the earth.

            The woman scowled. “I’m sure the worms will thank me. Now, be one with the world beneath.”

            Sonic was astonished. He had never seen anything like this, these purely magical warriors— though it did remind him slightly of “element-bending” from an iconic animated series he watched when he was a tad younger. But the massive swords screamed “Arthurian Legend”; there was no doubt that this battle was going to be epic. Amidst the confusion of battle, Sonic was able to sneak away and into the brush.

            But his fascination in, and concern for, his captors-turned-protectors’ battle made the instinctive command to run a bit sluggish.

            “You’re not getting away!”

            Sonic fluidly dodged the metallic glint that was aimed for his face. Not nicked in the slightest, Sonic transferred the reflexive energy to a somersault. Just within that moment, Lancelot flew in to attack.

            The blue bystander found himself ducking and dodging just like his captors. He was able to hold his own when it came to dodging the attacks, but he had no means of effectively protecting himself. Blasts of fire, earth, ice, and metal exploded from all around him, and he couldn’t keep up with their originations. The apparent three-on-three assault was very intense. And Sonic couldn’t find a way out of it.

            “Look at you, scampering away like a pathetic baby rabbit! Freeze, and let me taste your blood!”

            Just as the nimble viciousness commanded, a blast of cold air enwrapped Sonic. He grunted, blocking his face.

            “Release him, witch!” Percival cried, vertically slashing at the indigo bird woman.

            A deep slice went through the bird woman. But what she thought was her target had dissolved into a hazy clone.

            Her true opponent snickered. “You have terrible aim, Fire Fairy…!”

            Percival gasped.

            “Percival, behind you!” Gawain bellowed.

            A ring of rotating boulders soared toward the bird swordswoman, each closing the middle gap as they aimed to smash into her. The attack managed to catch her off-guard, with her clicking tongue against the roof of her beak.

            “Pathetic.”

            Then, like a flash of darkness, the female echidna destroyed the ring with her flanged mace. One mighty swing forced the attack to crumble and fail, much to Gawain’s irritation.

            Then, a garish cackle seared throughout the clearing. It reverberated throughout the trees, from within all the haze in the wintry landscape. Percival and Gawain had regrouped, back-to-back with weapons prone.

            The two swordswomen, the bird in black pearl and the echidna in wrought iron, were taking a pause from battle to keep track of the number of metal clashes within earshot. They were perched in a willow’s frozen bough.

            Both of them seemed rather annoyed.

            “You lost track of him _again?_ ” the bird woman let out in an agitated croon, patting a palm against her forehead.

            “Just hurry up and finish off that fickle knight. So we can capture the kid,” the echidna growled into the hazy wilderness.

            Another creepy cackle trilled through the canopies. “I’d love to, girls, but I haven’t had this much fun in a while! Go on! Might as well enjoy this mission before we conclude it! Right?!”

            The purple swallow flicked her scissor-like crest feathers. She huffed; it sounded a bit snobbish and finicky. “Good point. It would save us more time if we finish them, too…Gwynnie.”

            “You slash him to bits. And we’ll take care of these two…!” the female echidna proposed. The look she made was as black as her armor and spelled foreboding disaster.

            Gawain and Percival readied themselves for a second round.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the not-so-distant distance, the black-armored swordswomen’s comrade was still fighting against Lancelot. The 1st Viceroy-Knight was holding his own just fine, though his fatigue was showing more as his opponent dragged out the battle. He huffed quietly, refusing to let his saber tip touch the ground.

            A white bat woman, and her witchlike giggle, hazed in and out of the umbrage. Frosted leaves rustled from different places in the clearing, at deceptive degrees of origin. The white fog still hindered the Viceroy-Knight’s sight.

            Though Lancelot didn’t appear intimidated in the least.

            “It appears a _change_ has been made on my menu, Lancey.”

            Past the antiqued armor visor, crimson eyes narrowed. An aqueous gleam showed off the lunette that was engraved upon the top of his left gauntlet. He focused his senses across the grove, his ears pivoting and eyes leering. His reversed grip on the saber hilt tightened; the blade’s gleam matched the lunette’s.

            “You look so much more _delicious_ than that rogue-boy, so I’ve changed it from him…to _you._ ”

　

_This Lucky Break Isn‘t Lucky at All, Man!_


	5. Something Tells Me I’m Not on Earth Anymore…I Think?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three-on-three battle is deserted by the young newcomer—he's heading to the hills! The clashes and cackles reverberate, but there is soon an unmoving silence. Sonic has found a most unusual safe haven, as well as an unbelievable surprise. :Still on Slightly Lesser Hiatus: It looks, smells, and feels a lot like home...?

Event Five

 

Sonic found himself running for his life instead of the championship race he’d literally disappeared from. His speed hadn’t changed at all; it was still remarkable, and his stamina was through the roof.

            He hadn’t been running very long. Mostly because 1) his leg of the race was the “shortest,” 2) he was dodging trees and vaulting over bushes, and 3) his flight response refueled the miniscule amount he’d lost, in aid of this new expenditure.

            The greenery in between the trees was clearer than quite a distance back. He could actually see through the wilderness, now. Turned out he had outrun that dreadful wintry fog. So he skidded to a stop upon realizing.

            He scratched the back of his head, between his quills. “I feel like I ditched them.” Sonic contemplated on what that knight, Lancelot, said to him.

_“…In a predicament such as this, I must honor my subservience as a fellow earthborn over my duties as a Viceroy-Knight.”_

            He furrowed his brows a little. Deep concern was creeping around the corners of his heart. “But he didn’t give me any other options, so…huhh…!” he sighed roughly.

_“You will leave here immediately, if you value your life.”_

            “Well, this planet I’m on— whatever it is— sure _isn’t_ Earth, I can tell that much.” Sonic’s eyes gleamed. “Then again…”

            A doe and her stag were grazing in a meadow across the waterway before him. The sight of them made him wonder: If this place wasn’t Earth, then what place was it? It looked, felt, even smelled like Earth— minus all the gas emissions and pollution, that is. Those willows were the tallest the hedgehog had ever seen. Some of them even flowered, much like the springtime cherry blossoms back home. Upon stroking the branches, he noticed how strongly rooted the blossoms were. A mere close-handed brush proved ineffectual to them; Sonic smiled.

            After sniffing at the flowering limb, he chuckled, “It’s a heck of a lot healthier than Earth is. I can tell just by looking around and breathing.”

            The deer in the distance were watching him intently, as if waiting for him to do something. The stag had a rich oxblood coat, hind legs besprinkled in eggshell, and antlers curved over his head with bold elegance. The lady deer beside him nuzzled closer to his eggshell ruff, still keeping an eye on Sonic. Her coat was more demure, of damask rose. Her antlers were mere, naturally stunted buds, proving herself mostly harmless.

            The water that flowed between them and Sonic sparkled. Sonic crouched next to it. He noticed that it had a distinct smell to it. One he’d never encountered before.

            “Smells like mineral water…only a hundred times better,” Sonic chuckled, cupping some into his hands. The taste was rich with health and clearness. It was refreshing, and it made him let out of a hearty sigh.

            More birdsongs warbled, from both newer and more mature starlings. They were less distinctive than the one Escaflowne had sung. Something about that dragon amused Sonic; his mannerisms were a big part of it, of course. The mystical dragon was a cross between a cat, a dog, an eagle, a snake…and maybe even a person? Sonic could sense the very sentient personality the dragon possessed, and it amazed him.

            “I have a feeling Escaflowne knows me somehow…?”

            Sonic had his fill on the water. So he decided to have a look around.

            “Whoa…! This place is amazing!”

            Stony edifices littered the lakefront edges. The architecture was a bit hard to recognize, but it looked like a combination of Elizabethan and Baroque, with hints of Gothic thrown in, too. Short buttresses poked out from different spots. From underneath, grasses and wildflower patches cradled the apparent ruins. Even the ground Sonic was standing on had bits of floor inlaid in it.

            Sonic blinked a little. “Looks like a castle was here or something…?”

            More wildlife was appearing: Nothing dangerous, Sonic was able to confirm without heading for the hills. Cute little chipmunks scampered around behind him, playing around the willows’ trunks. He also saw that the green and red moons no longer hovered above him.

            In fact, the sun had finally made it over the horizon.

            Sonic stretched his back, arms over his head. “Ahh, morning! It’s about time! Feels weird that I have to greet it again, though…?” Green eyes blinked curiously. “Huh?”

            They had caught something flashing in their peripheral vision.

            A flock of white crested finches fluttered overhead. Sonic caught ear of their wing beats. He looked up and saw them fly right over the glinting object. He whistled lowly, and shielded his eyes from the morning sun. He grinned at what looked like a shiny bead.

            “I wonder what _that_ is?” the blue hedgehog couldn’t help wondering, as his feet brought him closer toward the tall outlier.

            Unfortunately, one that was poking out of the lake.

            The doe and her stag were padding along with the blue hedgehog on the other side, watching him with an almost expectant intent. They watched him get closer and closer to the stone protrusion. But as soon as the hedgehog noticed how far away he was from it, he groaned. Clearly, he was spooked by the water. He searched for any other ways to cross over it— lily pad hopping, possibly. But the lily pads that were present were too far away, along the other side of the bank. He pouted, bubbling a cheek.

            “Well, jeez, there has to be _some_ way I can get over there…!”

            Then, a whinny. Startled a bit, Sonic snapped his sights to the back of him. The Knights’ three horses were there— waiting, apparently. For him, he wasn’t sure; they just happened to be there. In his line of sight. Right after the horse call. He blinked at the three steeds.

            A nervous sweat drop clambered from Sonic’s temple. “Umm…how long have you been standing there?”

            The roan horse snorted, rocking its head upward. Sonic questioned the gesture. Maybe it was trying to tell him something? He looked to the others. They were making the same gesture, as if in agreement. Their nods were gentler. They seemed to be persuading him to pursue the glinting bead atop the outlier.

            _"Huh?"_ The blue hedgehog couldn’t help blinking. He looked toward the glint; then back to the horses. “Wait…isn’t there some other way I can get to it? I mean, I don’t take too kindly to water, especially…deep water like this.”

            His hands waved nervously. He really didn’t want to go anywhere near that deep water, but the horses appeared to be insisting it, regardless. Another sweat drop fell along his jawline. The seriousness in their gazes; it was unerringly familiar.

            _"Hahh, damn it…!"_ Sonic’s eyelid quirked. “Okay, okay, you guys win!” he admitted his defeat, spinning on his heels. “I’m going, I’m going…!” He kept his hands held where they could see them, very much like being arrested again. _"Like master, like steed…?!"_

            But his feet stopped him at the gap of water. An abrupt jarring sensation rattled the earth beneath his feet. One eye peeped open. And, suddenly, his foot lost its single hold against the ground, and the blue hedgehog went tumbling into the water. Platforms of underwater rock rose from around the outlier. They were making a staircase of some kind.

            “Agh! Help! Somebody help me, I’m drowning!”

            The poor blue hedgehog found water all around him. But that was only because he was kicking and splashing it everywhere. Evidently, he had tripped into a shallow end of the lake, earlier assuming it was much too deep. As the three saddle horses looked on, a familiar eagle-like screech pierced the air.

            Sonic didn’t want to think he was exaggerating his drowning; he did have a legitimate fear of water. Whenever he’d get anywhere near bodies of water, his mind would replay terrifying scenes from childhood: When Sonic was much younger, he, his mother, and grandmother had gone on vacation. The weather was wonderful there on the seafront until a sudden storm rushed in. Little Sonic was drowning in the sea when he spotted that nearly invisible waterspout. Luckily, his grandmother was able to pull him onto the speedboat and speed to shore. The rambunctious waves and thunder scared him, and he threw himself into his mother’s arms, where he felt safe.

 _“I don’t ever wanna go near water again!”_ he could hear his little five-year-old self gripe as he clung to his mother and grandmother.

            Back on solid ground. Under where he was now.

            And the fact that he was there baffled him. He must’ve been so entrapped by his fear that he didn’t notice that Escaflowne had saved him. The dragon had nipped the nape of Sonic’s neck.

            Carrying him like a lioness with her cub, Sonic surmised; another anger vein popped at his temple.

            But Escaflowne chirped.

            “Huh? What’re you— Gah!” Sonic cried, flailing again. Escaflowne wasn’t paying much attention to it. He assumed it was a normal reaction for the hedgehog. “Hey! Hold up, what’re you doing? Put me down!” The hedgehog’s eyes were swimmy with tears. “You sadist! Don’t you dare drop me in there!” he cried out, clinging to the dragon’s face.

            But there was no water where Escaflowne put him. In fact, he was sitting him atop the outlier. A dewy grass patch, and the source of the glint. Sonic turned away from the dragon and examined the glinting bead. Escaflowne took the liberty of perching around the rock; his tail curved around, body upright. Dragon claws dug deep into the stone, he swiveled his head around. As Escaflowne took in the environment, Sonic had crawled up to the shiny object.

            But its shine revealed gold. And its shape revealed a hilt, a guard, and a blade.

            Sonic sat, dumbfounded. A nostalgic strike of awe made him stare at it. Emeralds sparkled. _"Is this…what I think it is?"_

 

  
_“Sonic? Do you know why Arthur was able to pull Excalibur out of the stone?”_ he suddenly remembered the question.

 

            “No way…?!”

            Escaflowne’s Dragonsong floated into his awareness. But it was different from the first one. It actually sounded like a tune from his childhood. Back when his mother was still alive, the same one his grandmother taught to her. And to him, indirectly.

            “That song is…? But how do you know it, Escaflowne?!”

            He threw his sights back at the sword hilt. It was a brilliant gold, purest he’d ever seen; 24 karats had nothing on this. It had a tilt going on. The hilt wasn’t perfectly aligned with the sky, but it was set at an angle so Sonic could remove it with one hand. The handle was calling out to him, he felt.

            And it coincided with his deceased mother’s words. 

 

_“It was because Excalibur chose Arthur to wield it…”_

 

            Solemn glitters reflected as morning sunrays. Sonic’s mind reminisced, and his body was on auto-pilot. His hand was reaching out.

 

_“…And it chose Arthur…”_

 

            Sonic knew this was the moment of truth. Escaflowne did, too. His song intensified as Sonic grasped the sword’s hilt. Watching from below, the doe nuzzled closer to her stag, as if excited to be witnessing this. The stag’s head was steady, antlers flocked with colorfully demure songbirds. More birds were mesmerized from the willow boughs; the scampering wildlife gawked, chittering restlessly as Sonic strained to pull out the blade.

 

_“…Because Arthur’s heart was purest and most valiant…”_

 

            Larger animals appeared as well: It was quite a spectacle to behold. More deer stalked from the flowering brushes while beavers, ibises, and otter took places at the lake’s edge. Frogs sat on lily pads, croaking somewhat happily. Mongooses and predatory birds even looked on.

            All of nature was convening. Escaflowne’s song was captivating. And Sonic didn’t really know what it all meant.

            But he did realize he’d released the sword’s blade from the tall stone.

 

_“…Of all the noblest knights, bravest steeds, kindest of all hearts.”_

 

            The three Viceroy-Knights— Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival— came rushing onto the lakefront. The Dragonsong had lured them out of their battle with those witchlike swordswomen. They had not followed them there; something repelled them, for they tactfully blamed it on “missing their deadline” before fleeing. Wounds were sustained, but tended to. Lancelot was the first one to leap into the clearing, with Gawain and Percival nipping at his heels. They all stopped.

            Birds, predatory and song, cawed and chirruped. The chipmunks played, teasing around the Knights’ feet. Those ibises brandished ethereal white wings. The otter and beavers twirled around in the lake happily. A swirl of wind lifted flower petals and leaves from the ground. The magnificent doe and stag bellowed to the heavens. Along with the other wildlife there.

            “Oh my…” Percival sighed with little breath. She lifted her visor and brought that hand to her mouth.

            “He’s…He’s done it, my word,” Gawain stuttered, getting a better view, amazed by the scene.

            And with awestruck eyes, they witnessed all forms of life lauding their praises.

            Lancelot marveled the landscape’s purity and the wildlife’s exaltation. He knew what it meant. So, he was the last to remove his grille. His nose twitched as he sniffed the air. _"This…is the scent I have been looking for,"_ he said to himself, leering his crimsons over to Sonic. He furrowed his brows at the blue hedgehog raising the blade to the heavens. A bright sunbeam danced on and off it. _"He is the one. There’s no mistaking it, now."_

            “Your most brave, noble, and kind little sweetheart…” came the teen’s whisper.

            That same light also danced in Sonic’s eyes. He didn’t notice the armored gauntlet that caressed around his hand. The light in the sword blade somehow comforted him, as his mind delved back into his earlier years.

_“I’m gonna be your knight in shining armor someday, Mama.”_

 

            Eyelids cradled soft, teary bubbles. “That’s what I promised you I’d be.”

 

 

_Creaks from that cherry rocker. Warmth from her motherly bosom. The soft caress of her hands against my back, through my quills, it didn’t matter. As long as I could be happy. And make her happy, too._

 

            The sword lowered slowly and hovered just above the soil. The blade tip barely cut into the grass tip. But a ruby ladybird, as startled as it was, still climbed onto the brilliant steel.

_“The best one you ever had.”_

　

_But It Feels So Familiar…_


	6. Into a Brave New World with No Electricity...or Concrete, Even

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonic is the wielder of the Sword in the Stone! Reminiscent waves wash over the blue hedgehog, as well as graceful harmonies echoing throughout the lakeside. With the "oddly chosen one" finally arriving to civilization, he realizes that the air of familiarity has shifted...out of his favor. Everything isn't as it seems...and what better way to figure it all out than with the help of his "lovely" tour guides? :Back on a Heavier Hiatus Again: This city is huge as all get out, but it still doesn't answer where the heck I am...!

Event Six

 

“You were a bloodthirsty hellcat out there, Gwynnie! Next time, don’t break formation!”

            “Oh, keep quiet, Linde…! You’re the one who suggested the plan to attack them in the first place. Don’t nestle all your _eggs_ in a basket, and then _drop_ it!”

            “Shut it, you seedy harlots. This ambush was a failure. Our master is bound to be displeased.”

            “Have no worries, Shamarazad.”

            The white bat-girl, who was armored in skimpy roseate black gold, sashayed over to the brutish sard-clad echidna. Her perky bat ears were pierced, with black interlaced chains strung between them. They rested across her forehead. In the middle was a dark-pink gemstone. Her voluptuous bust was suddenly resting against the echidna’s, violating her personal space. The bat and the echidna were nose-to-nose, seductive turquoises to ill-tempered violets.

            The white bat ran her hooked fingers along Shamarazad’s cheek. Licking her lips, she insisted, “What Master doesn’t know won’t hurt him…right?”

            But Shamarazad was displeased. “Libidinous puss. Get off me, Guinevere.”

            “Hey now, Shamara, no need for such sharpness. Besides, that’s all she’s good for, anyway.”

            The purple swallow flicked a drooping crest tail behind her shoulder. She snickered, moonlit mythril glaring from underneath her own scanty ebony armor. A pair of cool-blue eyeglasses rested on her head, upon a black bandana. Inscribed into the fabric was a blue tourmaline stone.

            She placed her chin atop of the spicy echidna’s head. She giggled derisively again. “And…you know you want to lay down with her, Shamarazad. She’s such a fine feast…!”

            “Pompous squawk. No such desire has ever crossed my mind. You dare instigate an altercation with me?” the echidna huffed. She snatched herself out of the chair and away from the two women. “You’ve deviated from the matter at hand. You both need to focus.”

            “Oh, I’m _very_ focused, Shamarazad.” She wagged a highfalutin index finger. “We’re too good for him to dispose of. There’s no way Master will ex us out!”

            “So, relax, Shamara-dear…!” The black-rose gold swordswoman, Guinevere, swaggered toward the echidna. She was unbuckling her cloth halter before nestling her body against Shamarazad’s. “We should have some fun, before our next assignment. Hmm…don’t you agree?”

            “Disgusting! Get away from me,” Shamarazad snapped, shoving the bat-girl aside. “Bathe Linde with your bodily juices. I’m not interested.”

            Linde happened to catch Guinevere from falling. Although much to the sard-clad swordswoman’s skin-tingling disgust, Linde and Guinevere proceeded to lick and lap at each other. Gloved talons caressed a buxomly chest, while a voracious tongue wiggled against feathery limbs.

            Shamarazad stomped out of the haven, huffing an irritated sigh. “Tch! Nasty harlots.”

* * *

“Hmm, I see. And this report is accurate?”

            “As notated directly from collective memory, yes sir.”

            Midmorning had nestled in: Below, on the thoroughfares of a majestic yet rustic city, citizens dressed in comely pinafores and sporty dungarees bustled in and out. Simple townhouses lined the busiest avenues, but they looked too busy to be private residences. They bore a similar architecture to the ruins Sonic and the three Viceroy-Knights had trekked from: Touches of Baroque and Gothic to an Elizabethan style. Some of them were fenced in with short wrought-iron, windows boxed with lush summery ferns, walls overtaken by eye-friendly ivy. A few were a little further from the street to accommodate patios, complete with tables and chairs. The colorful parasols indicated an eatery of some kind.

            Small children teased around on the cobble, their mothers mindful as they chatted together not too far off; merchants were chanting strangely to get the attention of passersby; apparent deliverymen carted through the wider, clearer walkways. There were even home-based shoppes— blacksmith, goldsmith, shoeshine, every kind!— with the self-employed working on the projects right on the curb.

            But when his project was finished, the smith was handed spools of thread instead of any coins or bills. Which was strange to Sonic.

            He had wondering eyes but no questions; it was obvious to Viceroy-Knights Gawain and Percival that he’d be reluctant to ask them. They were following him around as he roamed the city, after all. Shop patrons stared at the sight of the blue hedgehog being shadowed.

            “Rrgh…this is so stupid,” Sonic had to say under his breath. An anger vein throbbed at his temple. _"After all that’s happened with Escaflowne, those creepster witches, and that awesome sword…they_ still _think I’m a criminal?!"_

* * *

Encrusted in the center of a rich, round sweet birch tabletop was a gold tetragonal coat of arms. The four-cornered symbol featured four serpent heads, all in the middle, consuming one another’s tails as they curved throughout. Their wings served as the symbolic embrace, which signified a quadrilateral union. Its royal aura cast itself over the brazen reddish wood grain.

            A skylight above the entrance showed sufficient light upon it.

            As well as upon a bulky leaden albatross. His beady black eyes peered down at the neatly written report. They scanned over some details that made his heavy brows dip. A pair of thick-glassed readers were tapped onto his beak as he retraced the succinct explanation.

            1st Viceroy-Knight Lancelot waited, eyes shut and hands in a patient fold.

            “I see you’ve encountered the Nymphus Nox…yet again.” The albatross leered back up at the midnight-cloaked warrior. “But this time, Gawain and Percival were present to aid you.” To and from the report, a masterly abrasiveness rumbled underneath those black beads. “You were fortunate to have accompaniment this time around, 1st Viceroy. You should not be so reckless as to endanger them, as well as this…rogue?” He blinked, lifting one quizzical brow.

            “If I may elaborate, Consul-General,” he addressed. The formal gesture was a salute to his chest. “This curious idler was found by Escaflowne of the Draconian Aerie. It would seem that he and this boy have bonded prior to our discovery of him. We found Escaflowne tending to him even, as if to coddle him, sir.”

            “Coddle? As in protect?”

            “Much to the dragon’s disdain, it would appear. But that confirmation may have a few contradictory indications. I have inquired to Escaflowne personally about it. His Dragonsong solely confirms the truth in these events.”

            “His Dragonsong?” The gray albatross tilted his glasses further down.

            “The Spiriting Prayer, Consul-General.” Lancelot bowed, salute still at his chest.

            The bulky seabird hummed. He was taking a look at another detail in the report, just as Lancelot relieved himself of the gesture.

            “You say here that _this_ curious lad…!” He had to make sure he wasn’t reading it wrong. His beady eyes gaped as far as they could. “…Was able to release Caliburn from the Stone of Avalon?!”

            Lancelot paused for a moment. A pensive, but reassured, somberness came over his face. Bowing again in deeper respect, he answered, “Indeed, Consul-General. I say this with unerring certainty.”

            The brawny albatross straightened his back, and huffed through his nostrils. His eye twitched a little. “This news astounds me— confoundingly so! I must see this for myself! Bring that boy here at once, Sir!” he demanded with a finger pointing at the doors at Lancelot’s back. “I demand undeniable proof— That boy must prove _himself_ to me!”

            “Right away, Doyen Consul-General.”

            And after another nod did the Viceroy-Knight spin on a ball and exit the cloister. His cape whipping, Lancelot could hear the anxious skepticism in the hulking seabird; the bitter cynic within himself began to rise from its own simmer, as well.

* * *

“Hey, are these donuts?”

            A short clerk, not much higher than Sonic’s shoulder, came from behind a fairly tall counter. The clerk seemed to work there, for she was wearing an apron. So, Sonic assumed the place was a bakery.

            Just past the glass casing was a shelf of delicious goodies. Some were drizzled with a pinkish syrup, others glazed with an unadulterated golden sweetness. Rainbows of sprinkling crystals set off the fancy embellishments on the treats, which were displayed in hand-woven tableware half a dozen strong.

            “They all look so good, I _want!_ ”

            Sonic was salivating. The sweets looked so good, his hands and nose were against the glass like a sugar-deprived five-year-old. His childlike behavior only embarrassed the Knights shadowing him.

            Sir Gawain huffed an irritable sigh; Sir Percival tried to ignore Sonic’s antics and engage the store clerk.

            “What might we barter for a baker’s dozen?” Percival asked sweetly. Despite the sweat drop at the back of her head.

            Sonic’s little tail was wagging back and forth. The basket of sweets looked appetizing, since he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning— the morning he found himself reliving. This new world was interesting and backward, in modest regard. He chose not to mind his displacement too much, for he wanted nothing more than food. His stomach was crying out so loudly that his brain had to comply.

            The bakery worker’s face flashed into the glass. Sonic blinked at the vivid blush on her cheeky face. Her hands fumbled with finding the desserts he was salivating over, so he poked at the pink-drizzled ones. And at her confirming nod, Sonic grinned.

            A rude nudge stabbed into his back.

            “Gah! What the— ?!” Sonic snapped his sights back at Gawain.

            “Prep your wager, ‘scallion.” Gawain wasn’t in the mood to deal with any normal-day mishaps. His scowl burrowed into Sonic’s soul.

            “My wager?” the hedgehog wondered, sore tears bubbling the corners of his eyes. He was caressing the pain in his back.

            “Yes. You will repay this young lady in a trade,” Percival explained as the young baker shuffled back with a bigger basket packed with those yummy treats. Placing it on the countertop, the lady Knight told him, “You must exchange a good or service that possesses an inherently desired value.”

            “So I have to make a trade with her?” Sonic made a blank face at Percival. “But I have nothing on me…!” Suddenly snapping at her, “I told you guys that already!”

            The young clerk jumped a little, patting a hand over her muzzle.

            “She didn’t say you _had_ to trade, ‘scallion.”

            Cracking knuckles popped off behind Sonic. The blue hedgehog blinked a little, and his ears drooped against his head. A squiggly knot scratched at the inside of his brain. Bubbling a cheek, Sonic groaned.

            “She said you _will._ And I will assure the young lady that her word stays true. Personally.”

            Sonic saw the echidna knight’s hand on one of the blade hilts. One swing from that massive ax-sword would lop his head clean off; he wasn’t sure why he cracked his knuckles if he was going to threaten him with a sword. Was it the place? Its size? The fact that women were present?

            Whatever the factor was, Sonic’s gladness overshadowed his disconcertment; it was the only thing preventing the Knight from going through with his assault. The notion of getting beheaded rattled his cobalt fur. “Fine. You win.”

            “I’ve never lost, yearling.”

            The remark was snarky. And Sonic didn’t like it. He was rubbing his throat out of discomfort, and the bakery clerk chuckled at their silly antics. After glancing at the girl, he noticed she was an anthropomorph like him, only a red squirrel. Her cherry blonde tresses were in braided tails that framed her face. Her fluffy tail coiled around her calves nervously. Her dark-brown eyes were averted; perhaps due to that shy blush in her cheeks.

            “Come now, what have you to trade?” Gawain was getting impatient, tapping a finger against his bicep.

            “Ah— no worries, M’liege Gawain! The pastries are all yours!” the clerk insisted, her blush still obvious. “Go on! You can take them— !”

            “Nah, that wouldn’t be fair,” Sonic insisted right back, shrugging. He surprised both Viceroy-Knights by admitting it. “Plus, they won’t lay off my case if you let it slide, so…?” Sonic sauntered a few steps before holding out his hand.

            To the bakery clerk. Confused and starstruck, she lifted her own hand and let him take hold of it. The heat wave from his hand intensified in her face. And her tufted ears flinched as Sonic planted a gentlemanly kiss upon it.

            Gawain gawked a bit stupidly at the spectacle. Some staccato gasps escaped the echidna. “What— ! What in the name of…?!” he stuttered, fists trembling.

            Percival, with an unnerved sweat drop, blinked rapidly. But reluctant peony tickled her own cheeks. She had to turn her face away. _"Hoh dear…!"_ Her sweat drop snowballed as it crept down the back of her head.

            The young baker could neither rebut her flustered excitement nor accept the slightly invasive, sweet gesture. Her face showed everything swirling around in her head. Her tail whipped around in a fluffy bundle. She was ready to swoon.

            “I, uh…appreciate the kind gesture, miss. I’ll be sure…to savor every bite.” The boyish gratitude was unexpected, and not his style at all. Sonic thought he was going to die of embarrassment. But the look on the squirrel girl’s face was priceless. His eyes turned up to see hers.

            “O-oh, oh…h’oh my…!” the clerk chittered. She brought her hand away after Sonic’s somewhat awkward gentlemanly bend.

            “It was a pleasure…doing business with you,” came the rather shy close. “I…um, hope to come back again sometime?” An equal-mannered hand fled to the back of his head.

            The clerk’s blush never left, but her head was bobbing up and down. With much enthusiasm. She had a tender clasp on the kissed hand; Sonic took note of it and tried at a sweet smile.

            The clerk sank behind the counter. But the transparent case exposed her bashful swoon and failed to conceal the swooning sigh. Bubbly hearts popped over her head like fireworks. And it left Sonic chuckling like the impish rascal he was.

            With that, Sonic left the little side venture. Marching like a proud youngster, big basket in hand. He munched on the sweet rolls. Happy as a lark, he stepped along. He reminded himself of his grandmother for a brief moment, blinking at the sky.

            Gawain was ready to pounce on the reckless teenager for the “uncouth shenanigans” he’d displayed. The hedgehog’s failure to provide a more “proper” return made him implode; his teeth were grinding as he and Percival walked on. Percival, on the other hand, never made a counter toward the hedgehog’s strange advances. In fact, she had held Gawain back and calmly dismissed the mishap, in the name of the “obvious clue” she’d observed.

            It was official when Sonic reassured them with, “Trust me. With all that red in her face, I’d say I made the right call!” before snickering.

 _"I just pray this will have no karmic effects…"_ the feline warrior remarked in silence.

            Water spouted from a small fountain. Sonic decided to take a seat on its edge and delight in more of his desserts. Seeing him already halfway through the baker’s dozen, Gawain growled under his breath. Then snapped at him not to sit there. Since it looked really old and worn, the Viceroy’s bark sensitized Sonic, making him jump up from the ledge. The Danish-like pastry drooped from his mouth, breaking steadily from the sudden movement. An attentive hand caught it before it fell. Frantic eye twitches gave him a spooked look.

            The echidna Viceroy-Knight directed Sonic to the stone bench beside him. And a pouty huff indicated the teen’s annoyance.

            The water sparkled in the sunlight. Sir Percival gazed into the ribbons that leaned back into the fountain’s basin. Through the mouth of a pitcher, a tumble of water splashed into a deep bowl. From it, three shallow bowls were held up to catch its trails. The man pouring the pitcher had an enchanting glow about him. There was a balletic essence in his stance. He looked like a hedgehog, but his quills were silken and long, braided strands crowning his head. His eyes were shut, and the woman below him seemed to be sharing that water with three small children.

            The female knight’s gaze was distracted by a very different face in her reflection.

            “The rogue is still in your proximity, I presume, 3rd Viceroy?”

            Sir Lancelot’s bust had appeared in the cascade. His helm completely removed, the cowl neck revealed itself as more of a nighttime blue and its clasp of three decorated crescent moons. Sharp crimsons were awaiting Percival’s reply.

            And Percival noted the focus in them. Her body followed her head’s turn. “Yes, he is still in our proximity.” She saluted. “Gawain is seeing to it, in fact.” A tiny smirk brightened her solemn outlook.

            “Very good. However, I request that you and Gawain direct him here…”

            Sonic had looked over to see Percival conversing with and nodding at the water. The pastry in his mouth wasn’t thoroughly chewed when he pulled Gawain aside and whispered something to him.

            “Why is she talking to the fountain?” Mushy crumbs skipped from between his teeth.

            And decided to stick to Gawain’s cheek. The irksome grimace conveyed his inner annoyance and bane for the teenager.

            “Yes, sir. Understood. We will arrive shortly.” Percival bowed again before facing Gawain and Sonic. She was caught off-caught by the glob of wet dough on Gawain’s cheek, though. The face made her appear embarrassed, but a serenity soon washed over and she scoffed it off.

            With a cute giggle. “The rogue’s presence has been requested, Gawain.”

            The warrior echidna flicked the chunks away with a thumb. He huffed in detestation at the blue hedgehog, curling back his upper lip a little.

            “Let us make our way back to the Stronghold.” Percival’s smirk never disappeared.

            But Sonic gawked to and from her and the water fountain. Upon seeing it, Sonic blinked like a confused child. He could perceive the fine craftsmanship that went into the five sculptures. He blinked at them.

 _"That’s what she got out of talking to it?"_ Sonic wondered, not sure if he, himself, was referring to the water or the statues.

            “Yes. Let us be on our way, then.”

            Suddenly, Sonic found himself enwrapped by chains. He had tried to escape, but his feet were the first to be snagged. Then, his wrists, which were bound to the back; a strange-looking padlock completed the crisscrossing binds going around his torso. The teenage hedgehog grumbled.

            But soon, in a burst of rage, “Hey, what’s the big idea? I can walk there myself— I’m not gonna run away! I knew you guys _still_ didn’t trust me! Why don’t you— I pulled a frickin’ sword out of a rock, for heaven’s sake…!”

            As he was doing this, Percival made a trade with the apparent owner of the chains. The man was looking around fervently for them, but Percival was able to give explanation for his plight. She also was able to give him something he needed in return. For which he was astonished. “How did she know I needed these…?” the fairly middle-aged man sighed, looking at the golden buttons in his palms.

            Gawain kept a scrutinizing eye on the “rogue.” Something in him pitied the poor hedgehog. And it was easily detected when Percival reinstated her place at his side.

            From the look of his profile, she’d say he was getting some kind of enjoyment out of seeing the teenager thrash and flail like a fish out of water. Although the boy’s incessant berating was making a facial vein pulse violently.

            There was a mighty contradiction in his face, in itself.

            “If I may ask, are you…entertained by this, Sir Gawain?” Yet another nervous sweat drop was skipping down her own jawline.

            Sonic was haranguing his head off. His imprisoned limbs didn’t budge, his restraints looked like a metal straitjacket, and his body indeed reminded him of a desperate fish. Albeit mighty annoying.

            Gawain stifled a laugh. He had turned his eyes away.

            Something in Sonic imploded. His eye was twitching, along with his mouth slowly morphing from a scowl to a smirk.

            “What in the— ?! Are you laughing at me?!”

            And then, exploded.

            “Time to haul him.” Gawain had dismissed the boy’s interrogatory comment and heaved him onto a shoulder.

            “Hey! Hey, Mr. Macho— put me down! I’ll _inch_ my way to wherever it is we’re going before I let you carry me!”

            “‘Tis more favorable to carry you than to _drag_ you…is it not?” Gawain retorted with bitter irritation.

            The remark was snarky; he was getting snarky. Again. It was making Sonic’s blood boil. And Percival’s eyes focus elsewhere.

　

_But I See Metal Is Alive and Well!_


	7. The Proof’s in the Pudding…Even If It’s Not My Favorite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonic is the wielder of the Sword in the Stone! And something tells the Viceroy-Knights there is an odd significance to this knave's mysterious presence...! The Kingdom of Fanelia is vast, shrouded with fantastical whimsy and curious characters that practice a heart-felt sense of community. But the next thing hits him hard: Sonic's "lovely" tour guides are actually royalty? Excalibur is a legendary weapon only he should wield? And how is an old man confirming all this? :The Heavier Hiatus Is Lifting Slowly: First, Escaflowne's a male dragon...next, these Viceroy-Knights save me from bloodthristy witches...then, I pull out this sword but still get dragged into custody...and now, everyone's saying I'm the King?! What is going on here?!

Event Seven

 

“No freakin’ way…!”

            The Stronghold was a colossus. How something so big could also bear such rustic elegance was beyond Sonic. He saw a flock of birds flying right by those sky-high buttresses, their pinnacles just far enough from streaking the clouds. But the many golden slates provided evidence for a different design. And the massive rose window in the front added more awestruck confusion. Sonic wasn’t truly sure if he was looking at a castle or a church. A supreme authoritative air misted about that place; the armored sentries observed the two Viceroy-Knights towing him via cart their steeds pulled. Still locked in chains, Sonic shivered at their cold leers.

            “This is the Fanelian Castle Stronghold, rogue knave.”

            Percival signaled two guardsmen to loosen Sonic’s heavier fetters, which enabled him to walk again. They tugged him into following Gawain and Percival.

            “'Tis where your passage to live will be challenged, where you will prove your misguidance, and recondition yourself back into society.” Gawain’s steely violets glared back at the blue hedgehog.

            The 3rd Viceroy-Knight’s amber eyes mirrored them. But hers bore a somewhat questioning allure.

            “How can I recondition myself _back in_ if I was never a part of it…?” Sonic muttered to himself. A gruff snarl soon ensued, and so did a threatening spear blade. Sonic squeaked a little, and saw another rise to accompany the first. A plethora of sweat beaded down his face. _"Okay, this is the part where you shut your bum hole, Sonic…!"_

            “Though, you are furnished with a particularly unusual witness, rogue,” Percival tacked on the addendum. Her aubergine bolero cape hems fluttered in an almost intangible breeze, as did Gawain’s emerald shawl.

            The lady Viceroy wore what looked like a tuxedo shirt. Its jabot bib fluffed over a U-necked bodice— in a old-timey style, like something an elderly librarian would wear. It fit her style, strangely enough: The bodice was a stiff-looking but elegant ribbed flaxen-silver, those eggshell ruffles cascading over it. Her swallow-tailed peplum overskirt showed a darker aubergine scheme, inlaid with a matched flaxen-silver ribbing. Creamy stirrup leggings and umber ankle boots pulled the Victorian theme together. There were halves of an intricate, intensely carmine rose traced on each of the overskirt’s tails; it matched her cloak’s clasp, Sonic was able to notice.

            He couldn’t fathom how she went from donning armor to suddenly wearing “everyday” clothes, however. The lapis lazuli pendant had relocated to the ruffled bib, for a ruby forehead jewel took its place. Also, the silver plates behind her ears had disappeared with the armor. He blinked, noticing the wicked-powerful sword still at her left hip.

            “…His presence has been requested by Doyen Consul-General Gustavio, Gawain.”

            Hesitantly, Sonic veered his eyes over to see Gawain’s twin axe blades. Just as hesitantly, he looked over the gradual change in the echidna’s wardrobe as well. Rugged lace-up boot soles were caked in strangely pristine, serrated edges. His knee-guards and pauldrons had intricate carvings, emeralds emblematizing them. The chest of the echidna’s dress shirt was open, which partially revealed his distinctive crescent. As well as a strongman’s six pack; something Sonic believed any teenage girl would have little to no problem swooning over. His knee-length chaps were burnt sienna and of somewhat good quality, seeing that there were fade marks instead of holes. They protected the hunter-green breeches underneath. The shawl was exquisite— of rich velvet. The animal’s paw mark resembled one of a bear or tiger. Much like the ones on each umber glove. It was styled like a poncho more than a shawl, in a unique sense. The reversed circlet on his head sparkled in the hallway’s light, gleaming pure emerald, like his boot cuffs.

            “…Then, to the Cathedra, I suppose…? Grah, damn it all…!”

            Sonic didn’t have any idea where he was being taken, but he only spied the vaulted ceilings and wrought-iron accessories everywhere. Battlements, he notices, surrounded the castle itself. Apparently, the castle was divvied into two sections: Another defensive wall within the city’s wall. It barricaded most of the outlying castle grounds, as far as Sonic could see. That massive, thick wall took a nearly complete minute to pass through. _"But that was only by horse cart. We were going, like, two miles an hour,"_ Sonic whined a little. It didn’t change his acknowledgement of the wall’s size. It was medieval in all senses of the word, but also like it could defend against a bomb drop, surprisingly to Sonic.

            Then, the actual castle was embraced by it. He detected subtle changes while transitioning from the castle wall to the castle itself: Iron and twine were soon replaced by gold and jewels. The harsh stone lightened in color and gained a more regal alabaster finish. Sonic lost sight of armor and epicene appearances, and discovered his captors being welcomed by women in pinafores and aprons. The women gave a healthy, hearty vibe— as if they were nurses or maids.

            Sonic blinked at them as they relieved themselves from their curtsies. Bewildered, _"They’re curtsying? Just who are these guys?"_ was on the blue hedgehog’s brain.

            “ _Ave Luce,_ 1 st Viceroy.” The 3rd Viceroy’s greeting sounded awful friendly and overly familiar to Sonic. Although, he had no clue what _“Ave Luce”_ meant.

            But the 3rd and 2nd Viceroys, Percival and Gawain, bowed in respectful, dignified grace: Percival motioned a skirtless curtsy and Gawain a modest half-bend.

            Sonic wasn’t sure what motion to execute at the sight of the 1st Viceroy-Knight. He remembered the hedgehog from earlier that morning, ready to snap his head off— like a ruthless, ferocious version of Escaflowne. His scowl was somewhat demure, honing a surplus of patience, but also cold and pragmatic. Scarlet irises showed a more daydreamy haze this time, as Sonic noted from the absence of his response. He saw the subordinate Viceroys mixed reactions to his lack of attention.

            But something in the black hedgehog intrigued Sonic.

            Without his antiquated armor, the 1st Viceroy could’ve passed as a normal person. Nothing stood out too much; his wardrobe was otherworldly, like all the others he’d seen, but something about it pulled him in. Sonic would’ve never envisioned this guy wearing blue; the closest thing he could see was denim. But this dark steel-blue had an air of regality. His cape probably had the strangest design out of the three Viceroy-Knights: Overall, it was uneven, with a long front and short back. The half-sleeved pelerine veiled a modest uniform. Three medallions held the cloak together in a bolo tie design. Each bore a likeness of the moon— a waxing and waning crescent at either breast, and a full disk serving the tie itself. Feathery tassels dangled from the tie ends, as if freshly plucked from a swan. His uniform was modest because the shirt wasn’t open like Gawain’s, as Sonic noted the crisp surplice’s pearly shimmer. Antique silver lined its sleeves and diagonal shirt-tail. Underneath, Sonic spotted a high waistband that bore a dragon’s semblance. Similar to the banner on his coal steed. His culottes, ankle-length and free-flowing, matched his pelerine because of the overskirt complementing it. Sonic wasn’t expecting the white bootees, though. Everything was pulled together in a questionably flawless fashion. There were no other words Sonic could find for it.

            Percival padded gently over to him. A sweet, motherly purr rolled from her throat and roused Lancelot from his reverie. “Are you awake, Lancelot?”

            The somewhat startled “Yes,” couldn’t feign his body’s jolt. He spun on his heel and uncovered cleanly gloved hands. “Bring him in. The Consul-General has been awaiting his arrival.”

            The two guardsmen gave sharp nods, and lifted Sonic by the underarms. Losing his footing startled the blue captive. Subsequent rants and harangues irritated Gawain even further as he, Percival, and Lancelot entered after him.

* * *

“Very good, you three. Now, place him there.”

            “Hey! Wait a sec— What’s going on?! What’re you gonna do to me?!”

            Sonic was freaking out. The two guardsmen handling him were practically dragging him toward a round altar. The belts threatened to tether him down. And each one cried for a different body part— a thigh, a waist, maybe a couple wrists, and throw a neck in there, too. The chains that stayed around him helped him none. The poor blue hedgehog squirmed and threw himself all over just to get out of the guards’ grip.

            Which, oddly, succeeded.

            Sonic was a chain-link worm as he literally inched away. Huffs and grunts could be heard as he wormed his way towards the door. He wasn’t making much progress, but he was a fast wriggler.

            As Doyen Consul-General Gustavio had to admit: “Well, what might _we_ be doing, rogue?” The burly feathery man’s boot stamped into Sonic’s path. His beady eyes stabbed into his resistance. It was clear he was the eldest in the room. His hoary complexion gave away his seniority.

            But Sonic didn’t have time for it. “Getting the heck outta here, I can tell you that much!” Clearly, the albatross’s seniority didn't matter to him. “Now outta my way, old man! I’m gone— !”

            “You most certainly are not, little sir!” the albatross snapped. “There’s something I need _you_ to confirm for me…!”

            Sonic blinked wildly. “Wha— Who, me?”

            “Unchain this one’s body. Leave nothing but his ankles and wrists tethered.”

            “Yes sir.” The two guards moved in to remove the padlock. Sonic pouted, the loose clinks and metal chinks not settling him one bit. He knew his feet and hands would still be bound. And there was no solace in that. Another sore huff.

            “And now, I must know this for myself.”

            Sonic glanced up at the gray albatross. Peridot irises scowled in annoyance. “Know what? That I’m just some lost kid wandering around in the middle of nowhere? I’ve been trying to tell _them_ that since this morning.” He shrugged a shoulder in the Viceroys’ general direction.

            The albatross— Gustavio, he took it— glowered at him. “Nothing of the sort. It relates to an astounding discovery. I will take Sir Lancelot’s word on this miraculous event…only if you prove it to be true _yourself._ ”

            One soldier had retreated to a hidden alcove and returned with a blanketed object. The white sheet did not hide its shape very well, so Sonic knew what it was.

            Lancelot was demure and blank in the face. His expression hadn’t changed much after being somewhat startled by Percival. Gilt with rising sunlight, scarlet gems peered over to witness the Sword from the Stone.

            _"The sword from earlier…?"_ Sonic scratched his cheek.

            The guard presented it to Sonic, upon one knee he sank and lowered his face.

            Confused by the sudden gesture and face mask, Sonic blinked wildly. “Huh? Wait a minute, hold up! Whaddaya want me to do again?!”

            Gustavio stepped over to him. He took the white cloth into his grasp. Gray brows dipped. “Take up this sacred blade”— He pulled the cloth away.— “and prove yourself worthy of it…rogue knave.”

            “Oh, I get it. The proof’s in the pudding, oldster! Check this out…!”

            Sonic refocused on the sword. Peridot glasses glimmered in the reflective blade. There was barely any natural light in whatever room they were in. The blade’s gleam was as mysterious as the blade itself. Like it had a life of its own.

            And he proved himself within the same time of remembering a fragment of his childhood.

_“…I really, really,_ really _like the part where Arthur pulls out Excalibur!”_

            Gustavio couldn’t find a rebuttal. With a strange expert precision did this “rogue knave” bring the sword’s blade close to his face. A gold-cuffed gauntlet wisped around his dominant hand. Whispering, just like the skies’ gentle exhales. The skies he knew so well. And now, the same ones that were whispering “He is the one” to his heart.

            Gawain and Percival were unsure if the unnerving silence was a good thing. Percival clasped her hands together. “Doyen?” she called gently. But Gawain growled a little bit. “Doyen General?” he called out as well. He trotted over to the older albatross.

            “Aye, it _is_ true…Sir Lancelot?”

            Gawain and Percival glanced back at their comrade. The black hedgehog held his arms in a passive cross. Calm crimsons skimmed the floor before finding the faces of his fellow comrades, the Doyen Consul-General, and the newly reawakening rogue. The curious teenager blinked out of his daydream and shook his head; those crimsons softened as a conformation.

            “Yes, sir. Just as I described to you from our collective memory, alongside the confirmation of Escaflowne’s Dragonsong.”

            Gustavio gawked. Something in the 1st Viceroy-Knight’s reassurance unnerved him. A drop of sweat fell from his temple. The black hedgehog had shut his eyes again. Soon enough, Sonic remembered where he was and smirked at the older avian man.

            “Well, is that enough pudding for ya, Gramps?” Sonic’s comment was snarky.

            And the swelling blood vessel in that temple had popped. “Your insolence will _not_ put you under my good graces, whelp!”

            Shortly after, the tethers finally got their meal: Sonic’s ankles, thighs, waist, wrists, arms, chest, and neck were tied down. The round table was neither too big nor too small. His spread-eagle body somehow fit inside the perfect circle. In his disconcertment, he was able to identify more Celtic-like markings. Obvious evidence to an association with magical power. Sonic wasn’t much of a believer of magic— at least, not the sorcery kind. But according to all he’d seen in those morning hours alone, he wasn’t so sure what to believe anymore.

            Those strange markings engraved into the circular tablet: They curled all around and wound in patterns underneath his hands, head, chest. And feet. The design wasn’t of complete perception in his mind, but he was sure it had something to do with him and that sword.

            Gustavio approached the teen with said sword. Clasping it tenderly in the white cloth, the graying seabird wasn’t likely to stain or smudge the blade, for his tan gloves wouldn’t permit such a “sacrilege” on his part. “Now, I must contract your earthborn soul with the Paradisal Signet.”

            “Umm…how exactly are you gonna do that, now?” Sweat drops bolted down the nervous captive’s face.

            Gustavio blinked, before refocusing. He positioned the broadsword over where Sonic thought was his groin.

            His fear and fury played out in one exclamation: “Hey, hey, hey! What are you gonna do— stab me?!”

            “I, Gustavio Macchus, Chief Guardian-Knight to the Fanelian Sovereignty, invoke the powers of my Counterpoise Libra…” He spoke in an incantatory rhythm, like a psalm. “Nölsikh Stratan: _Trutinor_.” And with a single strike, the sword struck.

            Sonic screamed his head off.

            The Viceroy-Knights clasped their ears down from the piercing cry. It didn’t lessen one bit, much to their annoyance.

            Because Sonic noticed the blade was nowhere near his groin, or him for that matter. In fact, the grating noise between his legs sounded awful artificial— nothing like his flesh and muscle tearing or his bones grinding into nothing. It actually sounded like metal on rock. So, Sonic’s yelps died down. Embarrassed, Sonic let out a tiny snicker. Aquamarine gleams flickered under Sonic’s hands. It caught the hedgehog’s intrigue. He could feel a strange sensation underneath his head and back, too. The sigils underneath him streamed like water, milky like mother-of-pearl. And an odd calmness washed over him.

            It was just enough to make him sleepy. The nonspecific chirrups coming from the gray albatross didn’t help him any. In fact, they lulled him into a deepening sleepiness. The teen drawled drowsily, unable to make out the somehow calming chants, and let the soothing lights from the engravings rock him to sleep.

            Curiously, in the midst of it, he was able to hear his mother’s singing voice.

* * *

“…Huh? Mom?”

            Sonic’s eyes were sticky from waking. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be awake, frankly. The oversized plush cushion he sensed was a lot better than his own bed, and with crisp cotton sheets fully embracing his coiled figure he was cool and comfortable. Although somewhere in his subconsciousness, he wondered how that glowing tablet had gotten so squishy. That murmur rocked back and forth in his limbo of awareness momentarily.

            “Wha? Wha’re ya talkin’ about? Your mum’s long gone, matey.”

            Suddenly, sticky eyes snapped open. The couple blinks that followed caught the little girl who’d spoken off guard. She was a small orange raccoon sporting a verdant ensemble, featuring wood-like basket weaves, two boomerang-tails, and a bit of a snarky attitude. Her big blue eyes gawked back at his dazed greens, half-startled and half-disgusted. The little raccoon recoiled, as if dodging a snapping snake, but lost her balance. “Wah-ah-ah— Ouch!” she squealed. And with a “Ka-thud!” she hit the floor.

            “Are you alright, Marina?” a littler voice asked.

            The raccoon girl had fallen from a not-too-scary height, and was rubbing the back of her head. She pouted, grumbling bitterly like the child she clearly was. “I’m a’right! I ain’t _bleedin’_ or noffin’, y’see? Hmph!” Boomerang-tails swung with her head’s sharp turn. Although, she still rubbed it.

            Sonic was awakening too slowly to notice the troupe of girls in the room. While his eyes were still blurred and blinking two other girls, a taller pink hedgehog and a smaller beige rabbit, skipped over to inspect the raccoon girl named Marina. The older girl seemed to be teasing Marina about the fumble. She even asked her “if she thought the boy is cute,” or something to that effect. That sensitized Sonic sharply. It threw him into an upright position. ‘Who, _me?!_ ’ he exclaimed in his head, pointing at himself.

            Marina readjusted her bandeau, since her young chest was unable to hold it up. Scarves made of green velvet served as slipper straps and armbands. Interestingly enough, the basket weaves in her clothes looked very familiar— infamous in various JRPG-genre television and game protagonists. Shades of tropical and deciduous bark were incorporated into the girl’s wardrobe: Browns and creams accentuated the shirt hems and detached sleeves. Leaf-green variants were tripled, ruffled, and patched together. It was especially cute how she looked like a pirate.

            Her apparent cohorts weren’t much different: The pink hedgehog sported sky-blue variants of Marina’s outfit, and the little rabbit beside her was in yellow-and-orange sherbet. Slung over her shoulder was a Chao-shaped satchel, and handfuls of paper were stuffed into it. The pink hedgehog sported a similar one, only hers was in the shape of a red bird.

            The pink hedgehog continued to tease Marina. “That’s not nice, you know, Nimue,” the rabbit girl was able to say between giggles.

            “Oh, yeah! But it _is_ quite the notion…isn’t it, Marina?” the hedgehog girl, Nimue, leered right back to Marina, whose face seemed ready to explode.

            And Sonic wasn’t completely sure why. This was all going on— right in front of him, without missing a beat— and the blue hedgehog flailed backward at the sight of Percival. His soul leapt out of his mouth.

            “Behave yourselves now, girls. This is not the right way to present yourselves to the Heir.” Her whiskers twitched at the curving of a stern smirk.

            The female youngster trio blinked a little at her. Marina didn’t seem all that obliging, so she pouted under her breath. Her littlest finger was picking inside her ear. Nimue and her youngest companion looked at each other. Intrigued, they blinked again before setting their sights back on Sir Percival.

            The feline warrior moved closer to the round bed. Sonic couldn’t help gawking at her. Something in her respectful tone led him to believe she was being serious. It became more obvious when she saluted him from her chest, half-curtsying. Almost like the maids to her and Gawain. And even sooner did the three girls shyly mimic her; while theirs were full, Marina halved hers. Another bratty pout puckered her lips.

            “Wha…?!” Sonic was still pointing at himself. “Now hang on— why are you guys curtsying?! I didn’t do _any_ thing to deserve this, so cut it out!” His mind was boggled, careening around in a tizzy. That same fluster stained his cheeks.

            After relieving their curtsies, the three girls just stared at Sonic. There were sparkles in their eyes, but also hints of confusion. Excluding Marina, who looked like she didn’t care too much. “A’ least he ain’t stupid…!” she muttered under her huff.

            “Nonsense, Your Highness.” Percival bowed once more. “It is common courtesy to show respect to those of honorable status.”

            Her “status” piqued Sonic’s intrigue. _"That accent sounds British…?"_ he thought to himself. But even more flustered blinks didn’t allow him to pursue it. “Wait! I’m not of honorable status! I’m just a ‘rogue knave’ that got lost in the woods!” He waved his hands in defense. “Look— I’m sure you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else…I know for a fact I’m _not_ royalty, or anywhere _near_ royal for that matter!”

            His nervous chuckles made the two attentive girls blink at each other.

            “Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time for me to get out of here and, uh…?”

            Percival’s brows were at a height of snide curiosity. “And just what do you suppose your next destination is, young sir? Where do you plan to go? If you _were_ lost, then can’t you identify the Cardinal Points, at least? Please, just to be certain, which way is north?”

            The lady knight suddenly transformed into a snippy headmistress. Her Victorian wardrobe and “princely” appearance only reinforced the idea. The three girls snickered under their breaths. “Looks like the cutie-tart's in for a lecture!” Nimue snipped at Sonic to her younger companions.

            Irritation pulsed in Sonic’s temple vein. His nerves burned, and he was tempted to snap at Percival. But something in him was restrained. And it made him pout. “I, uh…I dunno! Hmph!”

            She gave an identical sigh. “My thoughts precisely. You must apply yourself to any and all decisions you make, plot out your courses of action. It matters not how trivial.” She was stern with her advice. Just like a teacher. “Just as I am teaching my young Pages here, you must retain a sensibility about your judgments…lest you wish to run into endless bogs of misfortune.”

            The three girls gulped; Sonic’s eyes trembled at her seriousness. But then came a click of memory: “Wait. They’re _your_ Pages? Like apprentices?”

            Felid whiskers flared. Ambers slivered, as umber gloves tightened against her biceps. “You are not so _reckless_ as to challenge my authority, art thou, knave?”

            Sonic flinched. ‘Hey, whoa! Did I offend her or something?!’

            “Tee-hee! Sir Percival is the strongest lady knight in all the Kingdom, silly cutie-tart!” Nimue clarified. “She’s our lovely teacher, and one of the fiercest maidens in all of Fanelian history! Don’t let her lady-looks fool ya!” She winked playfully.

            “Yea, she’ll whip circles ‘round ya in a duel,” Marina spat out in overbearing faithlessness in the newcomer.

            A sweat drop dripped toward Sonic’s jawline, now. “Yeesh, sounds pretty spot-on to me, heh heh…! So hang on a sec. Are you three…studying swordsmanship under her?”

            “We sure are, my good mister!”

            Nimue’s perkiness was of clear resonance to a certain mirror-image hedgehog Sonic knew very well. He thought back for a moment, and recalled a time where Amy Rose was trying to arrange a date with him. Despite the obvious age gap between his sixteen years and her thirteen, her attempts at winning his heart weren’t all for naught. A most recent attempt involved a roller coaster, face paint, and chili-dogs, at least.

            Suddenly, the three underlings were armed with practice swords. Slender and sharp, like their master’s rapier, but more likely to be constructed of wooden splints. Each was fancily embellished by colorful ribbons. The pink hedgehog adored her red silk strand, its knot barred with a barrette featuring three overlapping bubbles. The rabbit girl’s chartreuse ribbon frilled with white lace and stamped on its knot was a white daisy. The orange raccoon didn’t like silks or lace, so she attached her ringed-tail bobble at the hunter-green strap's end on her play-sword’s hilt.

            The girls crossed their sword tips. Like expert swordsmen, just like the Three Musketeers. The pink hedgehog sounded with a brave, “I, Nimue Homina, Most Valiant of the Kingdom of Fanelia…!”

            “I, Vanille Lovelle, Most Endearing of the Kingdom of Fanelia…!” the rabbit girl tweeted.

            “An’ I, Marina Anjelica, Mos' Robust o’ the Kingdom o’ Fanelia…!” the raccoon girl sounded very energetic.

            “Unite under the aegis of Sir Percival Ladriènne, 3rd Viceroy-Knight to the Kingdom of Fanelia! We’re the Sylvine Luminaria!” the girls cried out together.

            Percival smiled. “Such unwavering dedication. Bravo, ladies!”

            But Sonic became even more confused. His internal self snickered at their makeshift swords, but a more honest nostalgia washed over it.

 

_At least they have play-swords. All I had was my imagination and my mouth. Swinging at nothing but make-believe enemies, fearless and strong only in my world._

_“To be the bravest, noblest, and kindest knight…!_ _I’m gonna be your knight in shining armor someday, Mama.”_

_When was the last time she sat in that rocking chair?_

 

            “Thank you! Thank you!” Nimue curtsied graciously to her mentor. Vanille and Marina followed the move, Vanille at full-bend while Marina’s came halfway.

            “Well done.” The lady-knight was applauding them. “I’m sure you worked hard on those expositions. Now, make sure you remember them and be ready to announce them at the drop of a hat. You never know who you’ll meet, especially if their presence may be…”— She gave Sonic a quick, thoughtful glance.— “Something you’d least expect.”

            Sonic’s eyes suddenly blanked. A brow twitched. _"_ Clearly _in regards to me…"_ the thought swaggered across his mind as a snickering impish version of Sir Percival.

            “What can we do you for, our good mister?” both Nimue and Vanille boasted. A pair of respective olives and cocoas were shimmering at him. They seemed ready to fulfill his any request. “Any good, any service— you name it!” Nimue insisted, wagging a knowledgeable finger. “Would you like some tea, good mister?” Vanille was so sweet, enough to offer him a cup that randomly appeared.

            Sonic waved a hand. “Ah, no thanks…?”

            “Or maybe you’d prefer some _karsar’lh_?” Nimue presented him a set of demitasses. There seemed to be a frothy milk-like substance in each of them, but different shades of powder sprinkled on top.

            Sonic blinked wildly. “Some what— ?”

            “Ya two’re so obliging! You mateys need to give ‘im some space, fo’ cryin’ o’loud!” Marina shoved each girl aside, each with a bratty squeal. Both her teammates puckered their lips in annoyance. With Marina doing the same.

            “Umm…?”

            Marina snuck a peek at Sonic. She noticed some knots of frustration kinking over his head. He looked to be going through a bit of a brainstorm: She blinked at the array of expressions his face put on. Among obviously confused, irritated, and impatient he also looked smug, cheerful, and somewhat sweet.

            But those didn’t qualify as emotions; they were reinforcing what Nimue had mentioned earlier. She did have to admit, though: Sonic _was_ a cute guy.

            That little notion brightened her cheeks as she showed him a tiny plate cradling a strange chocolate pudding. Drizzled on top were chipped nuts, much akin to almonds, going upward while another made of caramel syrup went downward.

            “Don’t bother wit’ them, miste'. Ehm, err…? Wouldja like some-um… _la_ _ït’sah_?”

            Sonic blinked at her sudden coyness. Despite how brash she portrayed herself to be, there was something about it that Sonic found adorable. But the name she gave to the pudding was unfamiliar, and he wasn’t sure if he should oblige himself into taking it. A nervous sweat drop clambered down his jawline.

            He wasn’t sure how to take the situation. And Percival could see it in his face alone.

　

_Not Sure What I Should Do…!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Notes: English translations to Gaean words/phrases:
> 
> Ave Luce / "Ah-vay Loo-chay" - lit. "Good morning"  
> karsar'lh / "kah-sah-r-lah" - hot beverage, akin to hot cocoa  
> laït’sah / "lai-eet-sah" - dessert-sized cup of pudding
> 
> Also, Marina's name is pronounced "Mare-in-nah," not "Mah-ree-nah."


	8. Will These Trials Be Enough…to Let Me Off the Hook?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Kingdom of Fanelia, Sonic! The Kingdom is indeed vast, shrouded with fantastical whimsy and curious characters that practice a heart-felt sense of community. But the next thing hits him hard: Sonic's "lovely tour guides" are actually royalty? Caliburn is a legendary weapon only he can wield? An old man is confirming all this? And what he's saying seems legit! But something else screams "destiny" from this mysterious knave...and it's something Viceroy Gawain just can't get over! :Working in Tandem w/Two Other WIPs: That Oldster was right?! Am I really the King?! But I'm still so confused! How's a big fuss over lil' ol' me gonna give me answers?—It's just creating even more questions! Shut your faces!

Event Eight

 

Tall, spiky, funnel-shaped flowers grew around the open arena. It was a strange combination of flora and cemented earth, but something about it screamed history. Albeit Sonic wasn’t too big on history, there was more to it than what screamed at him. Something almost warlike chanted there; it was indistinct, formless. Almost absent, if not for the encircling curbstones and partial amphitheatric features. Sonic looked around some more, while the Viceroy-Knight trio awaited Gustavio’s arrival.

            Gawain was seated on the other side of Percival. They waited atop a theater seat, though Gawain’s finger taps thumped louder with every minute that past. She had to let out a quiet sigh. Lancelot didn’t mind the Doyen General’s apparent tardiness. Preparations were being made for the questionable rogue, so the more time that elapsed the better they would be.

            “We’ve never had to wait for the Doyen this long before,” Gawain spat out. Acidic with impatience. “This’d better prove the knave’s worth…! Otherwise, this would've been a waste of our time.”

            “Speak not so testily, 2nd Viceroy.” Percival was giving her point, “Rest assured the Doyen is procuring all that he needs for these trials. There are three parts to these tests: They, collectively, must decide this one’s fate. For Caliburn to choose him is most unexpected…!”

            “And if what His Reverence has concluded is cast in stone, then this one…?” Lancelot’s thought became lost in an ebbing silence.

            But that left Gawain to snarl viciously under his breath.

            Sonic glanced back at them. He caught Percival taking Gawain’s hand into a motherly clasp and lowly scolding him. His mind wanted to snicker, but the expression he saw on Lancelot’s face made him forget. He blinked a little.

            “Promising Knave! I beckon thee hither!”

            The older albatross that appeared scared away a lost fawn. Sonic flinched at the loudness, as if to nip at the frightened wanderer’s heels. He straightened at the sight of who he’d brought with him: Not only were the three Sylvine Luminaria pages with him, but so were an awfully familiar green hawk and white hedgehog. Both were clad in armor, burnished only with dirt and rough play. They lifted their armored visors and took a gander at the blue hedgehog. The green hawk shot him down with a boastful sneer, while the white hedgehog seemed thoroughly confused.

            Bone-shattering clacks from the albatross’s bladed staff pecked at Sonic’s nerves. “Did you not hear me?! I beckoned thee! Hither, now!”

            “Alright, alright! …Sheesh, good lord.” Sonic padded up to him. With an uncharacteristic rigidness, he addressed him in a respect he tried his best to muster. “Promising Knave, reporting for duty, Doyen General-sir!”

            It was snarky, and the Doyen glared at him. Stony beads pierced Sonic’s soul. His snarky respect hadn’t fooled him in the least. Nervous sweat was shooting from his pores. The strangeness in the blue hedgehog’s blank face erred in feigning it all. “Your respect leaves a discourteous taste in my mouth. But that aside, I am here to grade you.”

            Sonic blinked. “‘Grade’ me? Whaddaya mean by ‘grade,’ Oldster?”

            “The trials I will administer shall either sway or set my initial judgment, regarding your place here in this kingdom. As of now, you are…our Sovereignty’s potential Heir. But there’s only _one_ way we will know for certain…”

            As he signaled the white hedgehog to present him the Sword from the Stone, Caliburn’s edge gleamed brighter. Much to the white hedgehog’s astonishment. As well as Sonic’s.

            The Sylvine Luminaria had taken a seat away. They watched the Viceroy-Knights approach the newbie hedgehog. Nimue, Vanille, and Marina focused into the conversation, the gesticulations, and the expressions made. Vanille kicked her feet a little. “Hey, where are Sir Miles and Sir Alfred, Nimue?” the rabbit’s eyes beamed up at the older girl. “Yea, a’nt they supposed to be ‘ere, too?” Marina had crossed her arms, poking a snide eye at her eldest contemporary.

            “Well, Headmaster Alfred obviously can’t be here,” Nimue remarked with a finger wagging at them. “He’s got a school to run, you know!” The exaggerated obviousness in her tone irked Marina; the raccoon couldn’t help the vein pulsing at her temple and the bratty bubble in her cheek. “And you know Miles: Always tinkering, always thinkering…when will that kid get a break? Well, we haven’t an inkerling!” The witty quatrain made her youngest friend giggle. She chuckled along with her.

            “Take hold of it, Knave.”

            Sonic looked from Gustavio to the sword. Tenderly, he took it from its clothed hand-rest. The white hedgehog’s shy gaze was averted; Sonic smirked a little. “Must be _really_ sacred if I’m the only one who can touch it…!” He snickered.

            “Your first trial is Proof of Contract. The Paradisal Signet has been assimilated to your flesh. You must prove it by presenting the Magistralis Ensign to me.” Gustavio motioned the hawk to near him. As he did so, Gustavio went on. “I will first demonstrate with Lamorak here. Then, I will test you alongside him. His Levanstral Ensign is similar to Magistralis, as they both command the winds. Though, his is to a much lesser degree.” Gustavio moved aside, toward the arena’s edge. The poleax’s shaft was stabbed into the soil. The strong-armed bird huffed before stepping back to Lamorak and Sonic.

            A bit spooked, Sonic remembered the scraping sound of metal against rock tile. The resonant “Shing!” made his eardrums rattle. But the sight of imposing bulk didn’t let him shiver.

            “Present yourself, if you’d please, Squire?” Gustavio gestured to the mailed hawk.

            On a ball, the Squire in question spun and faced Sonic. His salute was over his chest. A sharp nod: “I am Lamorak Alcharia of Valris Sal’chiara, 8th-Term Squire to the Fanelian Knighthood Institution and special apprentice under the aegis of Chief Guardian-Knight Gustavio Macchus. Sir!”

            Rigid, pompous, and very wordy, Sonic couldn’t help thinking. He blinked, like he wanted to ask “Why so lengthy?”, but he held his tongue. _"That’s pretty characteristic of Jet…but this guy’s 'not' Jet, though…?"_ That hypothesis was confusing enough to Sonic.

            “Very good, Lamorak. Now, the both of you, to center ground. March!”

            “Wait up! The’re gonna duel?!” Marina leapt from her seat.

            “I don’t think so…?” Vanille poked her cheek. Kicking her feet a bit more, she added, “They shouldn’t. Sir Knave’s never attended Knighthood School.”

            “Yeah, he’d be at a serious disadvantage! Hey, Old Man!” Nimue bellowed from across the stadium floor. She was huffing steam through her ears and shaking her fist. "What the heck are you doing?! He’s _nowhere near_ as skilled as Lamorak in swordsmanship! He’s never held a sword before, has he?”

            Sonic could feel his confidence slipping away with each of her shrill reprimands. A huge sweat drop slinked down his temple. _"Thanks for the vote of confidence…— None, whatsoever."_

            “Nonsense, Little Nimue,” Gustavio kept his authoritative air. “This is merely a display of inherent power. Lamorak is going to show this Knave how to awaken his Ensign.”

            Nimue blinked a little. Then sighed in relief. Vanille wondered if she was alright, while Marina huffed, “Aww, I wan’ned to see ‘im get sliced to ribbons…!” under her breath. She threw her arms in a bratty cross.

            Sonic’s brow twitched upward. _"Yep. Keep those 'no confidence' votes coming...!"_ Upon redirecting his attention, Sonic caught the tail end of Lamorak snickering under his breath: “Not even worth the practice…the little simpleton.” That comment grated against the blue teen’s nerves; a reminiscence emanated from it. _"Oh yeah. Now,_ that _would be something Jet would say— definitely. Does_ no one _have faith in me?!"_ His mindset quickly changed. _"Heh! No worries, I’m gonna show all of you how believable I am!"_

            “Call upon your powers. Let your will evoke the spirit within, and spin a dervish in the palm of your hands.” Gustavio had shut his eyes. His voice trembled with a stringent passion. It felt like he was preaching, to Sonic. But the hulking albatross was trusting a successful outcome.

            Sonic had no idea where to start, so he began to concentrate. Hard. He equated “evoke the spirit within” with meditation through some strange means. His brain was notoriously the “strangest creature on Planet Earth,” so he figured the theory could be justified. Somehow, since he “wasn’t” on Earth.

            The trio of Viceroys watched the pair closely. A soft breeze came through; Gawain looked to the direction of the source. He blinked, somewhat caught off guard by the swiftness in response. _"The wind…heard them? It feels like it’s waiting…?"_ His luxuriant shawl bowed in the breeze, alongside the 2 nd and 1st Viceroys’ capes. Percival kept a stoic, expectant glare on her face. Her whiskers flinched as a sneaky gust whipped along her peplum hems. She patted it down smoothly, clearing her throat. A deep, thoughtful majesty swayed with her superior’s cloak. The dark-silver lining danced; Lancelot welcomed the breeze. A gentle nod of acknowledgement preceded another gust.

            Gustavio waited. His hands were at his back. His eyelids were buttoned. Breathing easy, in and out, as did his apprentice and the Knave.

            Somehow, Sonic had adopted the breathing technique. His ears moved with the breezes swirling by. The green hawk’s feathers did the same. A fan-shaped crest began to glow dimly on the topside of his right palm; Sonic’s new plume-like crest mimicked it. Both teenaged swordsmen breathed in time with Gustavio.

            “Invoke your awakening, and summon a dervish in your palms.” The albatross’s final instruction cued them to obey.

            Without much delay, a tiny tornado spun in Lamorak’s hand. Glints of his crest’s power shined in it. “Levanstral, _Insurgo_ ,” came the subsequent murmur. And a cocky smirk. Swiftly, his hands motioned in a bigger spherical movement. The breeze that obeyed blew more of the Viceroys’ capes upward. In one final movement, Lamorak calmed the squall. Small songbirds in the distance flapped to the coliseum top. Vanille pointed at them, seeing the bit of struggle they had to push through. Nimue and Marina huffed at Lamorak. Clearly he was being a showoff, and they didn’t like it.

            Neither did the Viceroy-Knights, nor the Chief Guardian. The much older albatross snorted, “Foolhardiness never impresses me, _Little_ Lamorak.” The emphasis stung the hawk trainee, who winced at the degradation. Regret dispelled his Ensign’s power, and an apology was bowed to him. Quick, sorry, and embarrassed.

            Sonic never felt so lucky. _"But that goes for me too,"_ quipped the hedgehog’s thought. His internal self nodded; externally, his eyes were still shut, lungs taking their time with the rhythm. It felt like something was imprinting itself into Sonic’s psyche, but he wasn’t sure what it was. _"Alright. Let’s give this a try! Focus, Sonic…focus."_

            Lancelot trained an expectant gaze on the blue hedgehog. He heard Lamorak click his tongue in annoyance, and soon narrowed his sights on Sonic again. He nodded again. It was gentle too, more like he was receiving permission from someone.

            And Percival noted it. Silently, with a tiny smile.

            Sonic brought the broadsword up to his face again. It was that same feeling from before, the time he first brought out Caliburn. He felt like he was born to wield it— which came as a shock to the blue hedgehog. He’d never held it before, much less a sword in general. All he had was his imaginary sword growing up. But this feeling: It evoked childhood memories, of his mother rocking with him, reading to him, singing and playing, bathing and eating with him. The times when his mother would cry; others when his grandmother had to baby-sit him when she was away.

            He remembered on his first day of kindergarten, she was there.

            He remembered on that last day of her life, she was there too. In her best colors, in a simple white and rose-gold casket. His grandmother swore that if her daughter went out, she’d “go out in honor” in respect to her memory.

            Simple and clean, but soon to be laid to rest, entombed in six feet of earth. He couldn’t forget that simple headstone:

“Elise the Hedgehog

“Ushered in May 24th, xx08— Departed June 9th, xx44

“‘You Are Never to Be Forgotten, Never to Be Thrown Away’”

            It was crowned with a camellia chalice, a long-lost doll of hers by his grandmother’s courtesy, underneath a silver birch. The summer breeze shook its leaves.

            Tightened muscles relaxed. Sonic’s grip slackened so he could fluidly swipe the blade tip outward. As he breathed out, the wind exhaled with him. A small grayish-green glimmer crested the cut. Not enough to leave anything deeper, the near-crescent nicked off the topmost bits of grass. Capes rustled again, only more curtly. The Viceroy-Knights spoke not, nor did the Chief Guardian. In fact, surprise reigned over their faces.

            Something made Gawain flush in the face, flummoxed by how such a gust could’ve been conjured by “a mere rapscallion.” Percival blinked a little wildly herself, wondering the same thing, though more in amusement than bemusement. Lancelot didn’t show an initial reaction. It was a bit delayed, like the turbulence that flew past. His brows sank ever so slowly.

            Lamorak flinched away from the weak attack. His overly exaggerated recoil made Gustavio squawk at him. It was a detestable display of cowardice, he had chirred. The Sylvine Luminaria gaped at the knave. Vanille gasped, “Oh wow!” alongside Nimue’s, “He’s got a grasp on the technique already!” But Marina was skeptical, with her “But ‘at’s impossible! He ain’t never had that power b’fore!” being testy even then.

            Sonic’s gaze beheld Lancelot unknowingly. The black hedgehog’s eyes gleamed like a watery pool. Intense and focused on him in return. Jade pinned down carnelian. As unaware as he was, his breath returned to his lungs and brought him out of whatever mindset he’d been in. The songbirds perched higher up tweeted, happily in a sense; Nimue managed to catch ear of them. Before long they dove away.

            “… _That_ ain’t fair! I demand a recount!” the raccoon girl snapped.

            As little Vanille tried to soothe her, Lancelot lowered his gaze. “You can’t demand a recount _for_ him, Marina…” he heard the rabbit girl correct her. He sighed under his breath. _"His skill has already advanced to one of a Squire…? Most astounding, and unnerving."_

            Nimue turned her eyes to the white hedgehog shyly approaching the black one. There seemed to be a one-sided conversation going on between them; Nimue made a worried face. _"Galahad…?"_ her mind sighed. The white hedgehog made a sharp bow to the superior taking his leave.

            Gawain was the first to notice. He growled and decided to stop him. “Aye! Where might ye be off to, 1st Viceroy?” At the sight of Lancelot’s halt, he cast a grim sneer. “Off to vent your dismay in private?” His sneer went from grim to mocking. “You needn’t feel so disgraced, Milord. Neither you nor I could have done better than this one rapscallion here. That much I can admit.” He crossed his arms. Glaring heavily, he cursed, “At least I’m man enough to, unlike _you,_ Milord.”

            Something in that final bit tasted caustic. Percival wanted to dissent his accusation, but found herself unable. The two Squires were caught off guard by the 2nd Viceroy’s comment. Lamorak snorted due to his uncertainty, with his hedgehog coordinate, Galahad, feeling the same. He had lowered his eyes, toying with Caliburn’s white cloth. Gustavio knew better than anyone else how bitter Gawain was feeling. He let out a deep sigh, a little sweat drop falling from his temple.

            “Okay, that’s it! Is something up between you two?”

            Everyone threw their sights back at said rapscallion. A puzzled look took over his face. There was also hints of annoyance, nosiness, and concern. Something the girls, including Percival, and Gustavio could pick up on. The younger girls blinked, gasping outward. Percival’s ambers shied away bit by bit.

            “Because you guys have been like this ever since you captured me, and I wanna know why you hate him so much, _Gawain!_ ”

            His emphasis on the name must have made a blood vessel pop somewhere in the echidna’s skull. “This detestable creature standing before you has been in search for the Sacred Broadsword for as long as Her Majesty has been absent! Needless to say, he feels himself _entitled_ to such a sacred weapon!” His finger-pointing made him look childish, which made a blood vessel swell somewhere in Sonic’s head. “His pride precedes his rank, and that _clearly_ precedes his person! Someone like him doesn’t belong _anywhere_ in this hierarchy, much less this Kingdom— !”

            “Sir Gawain McAüschlun, stand down,” Percival ordered sharply, whipping her cape toward the back. “I will not allow you to cast such aspersions on our fellow Viceroy!” Her felid pupils narrowed. “Your remarks are laden with disrespect and _disregard_ to our Viceroyalty’s methodology. They are borderline _blasphemous,_ 2nd Viceroy. I suggest you watch your tone, especially in these notable presences.”

            Her dark, waspish tone stung the echidna’s ego. She was speaking in regard to not only the young girls, but to the knighthood underlings, Chief Guardian-Knight Gustavio, herself, and even Sonic. The girls shivered. “Sir Percival’s _really_ mad, yea…?” Marina quibbled, half-snide and half-scared. Lamorak and Galahad backed away, bowing forward to her as she approached her slightly superior counterpart. They were face-to-face, though her slight vertical disadvantage failed to worry her. Gawain, stunned by her boldness, also became irritated by it.

            He noticed her furious flush and gritted his teeth. “You’re siding with a potential traitor, a _heathen?_ ”

            “I will not condone your insulting _our_ superior.”

            “He’s no superior worthy of such endearing protection, Milord.”

            Sonic felt the air quiver. Something in him screamed danger, but he wasn’t sure how to break them up. He didn’t cower, but he couldn’t stand between them either. Deadlocked were the two Viceroys; no one dared come between them. So Sonic resolved to follow the cue.

            Gawain scoffed off her abrasiveness. “Doyen, surely you’ve already sided with me on this matter?”

            The older albatross kept his head level. He knew he’d be called into the squabble sooner or later. He opened his eyes gently. So much that Lamorak and Galahad were surprised by it. “Such a matter should not be settled here, of all places, Viceroy. If you are in need of counsel, speak with me in the Ambassadorial Cabinet; do not desecrate these hallowed grounds with your rumbustiousness.”

            Sonic was in awe of the elder’s coolness— in temperament. He was just waltzing off, with the two Squires at his back. They seemed to be leaving reluctantly; especially Galahad, who couldn’t keep his eyes off Lancelot too long. Sonic blinked as the albatross led them away. He saw that his poleax had been abandoned. His brows tilted inward. _"Doesn’t he need that? Did he forget it…?"_

            Nimue stood from her bench and edged closer to the Viceregal triad. None of them moved. It was a true perturbation for her and the girls: They’d never witnessed so much dishevelment between the three forces of nature. At least, not in front of their eyes. Nimue worried that Gawain and Lancelot’s rift would affect the Kingdom’s outer dynamics. Surrounding territories may regard the disunity as pitiable and even harmful. And, in return, stop receiving positive reinforcement. Which possibly meant disbanding the Sylvine Luminaria and the three girls losing their jobs.

            Vanille trotted up and clasped onto one hand, while Marina shied behind the other. “Hey, you’re not gonna keep fightin’ like ‘is, are ya?” the raccoon whined.

            Sir Lancelot didn’t resume his retreat. He seemed to be waiting.

            As for Sirs Gawain and Percival, the stalemate had nullified at the Doyen General’s departure. The feisty red knight was the first to turn away: He conceded to Percival, regarding Gustavio’s advice. His not-much-lesser comrade turned her back, as well. Her arms taut in their cross, she noticed her pages creeping around them and dashing to Sonic. Guilt crested from her angry eyes.

            “This dispute needn’t any more attention than it’s already gained.”

            Sonic and the girls leered over to the 1st Viceroy-Knight. He may have been the subject of it all, but he was able to vocalize and denounce their need to quarrel, nevertheless. His eyes were devoid of hurt or offense; in fact, they gleamed of patience and understanding. Forgiveness from his comrades. As well as the two Squires and his Guardian overseer, the ever-youthful Sylvine Luminaria members. He bowed to them, who were clinging to a confused Sonic. Ever marked with grace and deep apology, he lilted, “Please pardon the unsavory display you’ve all witnessed. Forgive us, dearest Sylvine Pages…and Rogue Squire.”

            Sonic blinked wildly in the midst of the girls’ acknowledging nods. Jades glimmered in the high noon sky. Time slowed, the hedgehog teen watched the head Viceroy take a modest leave: his bend held respect, careful hands kept his cloak away. A slow walk brought him closer to leaving. Upon beginning his flight up, he kept silent.

            His upward footfalls were softening. But before they disappeared, a small “How shameful,” from Sir Percival snipped at Gawain’s ego. The lady knight took her leave, as well. The embarrassment in her voice radiated in her cheeks. She was really ashamed of Gawain’s behavior, and her ill-handled response. She'd sunk to his level and shouldn’t have. Therefore, she left. Without so much as a glance back at her pages or Sonic. “Rogue Squire, please allow us to escort you back to the Castle,” came her final remark. It was curt and brimming with shame. But, somehow, remained wary of maintaining respect. “Nimue, Vanille, Marina: at my heels.”

            The girls gulped, then yelping, “Yes, Ma’am!” and pulled Sonic onto their trail. “C’mon, slowpoke, don’t make ‘er any more mad than she a’ready is…!” Marina grumbled as she shoved him into following.

            But Sonic didn’t want to abandon Gawain. Concern gleamed in his eyes as he checked back on him every couple of paces or so.

* * *

Not quite as steamy-headed as before, but some time after everyone had gone, the 2nd Viceroy-Knight stood before the Doyen's poleax. He decided to take a seat in front of it and attune himself to the earth beneath. His head temperature decreased with each closing inch toward earthy-spiritual oneness. His breaths smoothed out, and he allowed his mind to become immersed in nature. The poleax began to give off a silvery glow: Unmoving and slowly helping Gawain achieve inner sanctum, fauna began to gather into the coliseum. A pair of ferrets skirted behind his back. They sniffed in his direction, but they saw that he didn’t mind them. A brief tease alluded to their safety. Soon enough, a burly wolverine sauntered through an iris patch. Nonchalant of the much smaller chipmunks scurrying toward the Viceroy-Knight.

            A harrier perched upon one side of the ax's balance. Its caw didn’t disturb him; neither did the chipmunk pair. They seemed so trusting of him that they scampered into his cross-legged lap. One last play was snuck in before they curled up, closer together, and napped there.

            “It’s alright”— “Be still, mighty warrior”— “Be calm”— “Let your anger wash away, young spirit”— “It’s okay now, see?”

            The voices of the flora and fauna were all mitigating his spirit. All working together to pacify his heart, ease him out of his woes. Total relaxation ensued.

            And Gawain's body didn’t move much since.

　

_Looks Like My Hook Isn’t the Only One Caught…_


	9. This Kingdom Has…Quite a Familiar Feel to It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems there's some turbulence in this camaraderie. While the Viceroys cool down, the Sylvine Lumanaria are kind enough to give this mysterious knave a tour of the Castle grounds! But everything just gets stranger and stranger to the proposed Heir to the Fanelian Throne. Somehow, he's inherited such a big responsibility...without any awareness of its origins. Or his own. :Still Working in Tandem w/Two Other WIPs: There's no way this can be right. I mean, seriously...? I'm supposed to be a King? I thought I was just a regular kid with regular dreams...

Event Nine

 

“Sylvine Luminaria, I leave the Heir’s security to you. Will you please escort him to the Household Suites in my stead? There are some matters that I need to attend to.”

            “Aw, but Lady Percival— ?” Marina whined.

            “That’s _Lord_ Percival to you, Little Marina.” The feline knight didn’t turn to see her pouting face.

            “Why’re stickin’ us with ‘is weirdlin’? Why’re we tour guides alluva sudden?!” Her ranting was irking her crewmates, and even Sonic and Sir Percival. “We’ve got important errands to run too, y’know!” She huffed, crossing her arms.

            “Can we really give him a tour, Viceroy?” Vanille offered, sweet and raising her hand.

            Marina plucked out every sparkle in the rabbit girl’s eyes. “What’re you, crazy? That’s a se-cu-rur-ty hazard, ya nimrod!”

            “Not in this case, Marina.” The 3rd Viceroy’s voice was contradictory in its softness. Her heels had stopped clacking, her footfalls completely halted. The royal plum cascading over her shoulder blades swished at the mid-step pause; now that she was inside, her cape had shortened. “This ‘weirdling’ happens to be the Heir to Fanelia’s throne. As such, we must treat him with utmost respect and fulfill his wishes.” She straightened, blinking at Sonic. “That is, if a tour is what he desires.”

            “Yeah, we can do it! We know this palace like the backs of our hands!” Nimue the Valiant pinned a haughty thumb to her lapel.

            “Down to the tiniest specks of shiny marble!” Vanille, just as Endearing, giggled excitedly.

            “But why do _we_ hafta do it?!” Marina kept griping, gesturing accordingly and grandly. “Caun’tcha get Lancelot or Gawain to do it?”

            “I would, personally,” Percival assured her. In her infamous lecturing tone. “But we’re all preoccupied with more pressing matters. Gawain is still cooling down and assisting in the Squires’ training regimens, and Lancelot has taken off to an ambassadorial trip in Mercrusia, and he will not be returning until Atzü’lu’s Midrift.”

            Sonic blinked in confusion.

            “Huh? But that’s almost two weeks from now, Viceroy!” Nimue was a little skittish now. She threw her hands in a ladylike clasp. “Will he be okay? Mercrusia is a long ways away…!” Vanille had done the same and was nodding vigorously.

            “I’m sure he’ll be fine, Nimue, Vanille. And so will our Kingdom of Fanelia.” Percival stayed assuring, motherly, and ladylike. She half-curtsied to them and imparted some final instructions: “Which means the Heir will have ample time to practice more with his newly found technique.” She winked both eyes at Sonic. “When you three have the time, take him to see both Doyen Gustavio and Lieutenant Miles. They will be of great assistance with the Heir’s practice.” She smiled, sweet as can be.

            Which confused Sonic to no end. “Huh? Practice? Look, ladies, I can’t stay here— and I probably should’ve mentioned this _way_ beforehand, but we were too busy dealing with a dragon, witches, a magic sword…and donuts.” He huffed a bit bitterly. It made the three girls look to one another and blink. One of Percival’s brows raised. “But anyway, I’ve got a grandma to get back to, and a championship race to finish winning! I don’t know how I got here or anything, but I’d like to kindly take my leave…y’know?”

            The three girls’ ears perked up at the word “grandma” and twitched a little. Bright green, sky-blue, and cocoa eyes peeked at Sonic, who decided to take a walking start. They all wailed, “Wait!” while reaching out to him. They ended up converging on where their cheeks squished together. Poor Marina was in the middle.

            “A grandmother? Your grandmother is long gone.”

            Sonic froze in his steps. A chill shingled through his fur and down his spine. It seemed like his heart dropped into his feet. His irises quivered, muzzle steadily paling. “Wh-What…did you just…?” Nervousness made his pulse thunder.

            The girls had plopped to the floor, but Percival crossed around them, classy heels clacking her precise movements. As she moved, so did her serpentine tail. “The late Fanelian Matriarch, Mother Helene Kyrie III, reigned unto her third diamond anniversary before expiring.”

            Sonic snapped his sights to the Sylvine Luminaria for triple reassurance. But when they hesitated, he barked at Percival, “Wait, what do you mean ‘expire’?! Is she dead?! And how— when?!”

            “That was all before you were born.” The feline officer was stern and unwavering. Her tail swayed back and forth.

            A numbness preconceived Sonic’s shock. His fists fell out of form and to his sides. Her answer had thrown him into a whirl of befuddlement.

            And it wasn’t hard for Percival to see. A soft sigh puffed through her lips. “All will be explained at a later time, seeing as my Pages may currently be unable to answer all you may ask…?”

            “What’re you talking about, Viceroy?” Nimue’s enthusiasm knew no bounds, it seemed. “Of course we can answer his questions! I’m a history wiz, remember? I can recite all thirty-three Canticles of the Kyrie-Ambrosial Treatise of Fanelia— in Empyrean too, _and_ transliterate them into Florentine Gaean, no problem!”

            Percival was impressed. “Oh, you can, can you?” Even if it sounded feigned. She had decided to take her leave once more.

            As she grew farther and father away, Sonic’s reflex to stop was a bit too slow. He heard Vanille giggling. “Of course _you_ can, Nimue,” the rabbit girl explained. “Because that’s the big, fancy, _royal_ name for the Matriarch’s acceptance of Father Aurelius’s marriage proposal…!” She burst into a fit of sneaky laughter.

            “Hey! That’s still an important piece of history, silly!” Nimue retorted with a twinge of sensitivity. Puffs of steam tooted from her ears.

            “Yea, so? In otha’ words, it’s just a icky love poem, ya twit…” Marina’s rewording was a bit more curt and slightly tarter than what Vanille described.

            The rest of the girls’ banter ebbed and flowed from Sonic’s awareness, however. He was able to blink at their changes in subject, and even refocus at any name that could’ve referred to him. _"Okay…just get a grip, Sonic,"_ he quieted himself. _"This…_ clearly _isn’t Earth…at least not the one you know."_ His eyes watched the girls chase around him, the smaller ones skirting after the whining Nimue. The smile that curled was tiny and a tad embarrassed for her. _"Just keep calm. I’m sure these three will tell me everything I want to know."_

* * *

Upon relaxing into a mass of plushy cushions, Sonic heaved a sigh into the luxurious material. He hadn’t really relaxed— or slept— since his dislocation. The whole Ensign bit he refused to include because he was technically knocked out. But maybe he could count it now; at that point, he didn’t care, since he just wanted to sleep some more. The Sylvine Luminaria trio had been overly indulging, offering him random meal dishes, snacks, clothes, blankets, even to give him a bath. Which was exceedingly awkward, considering they all looked so young.

            For that last bit, they did show him where the “Fanelian Baths” were. And Sonic was very impressed by the intricate moldings, the clean shallow pools, the overall elegance and dainty touches, like the smaller bowls of scented water— which he sniffed— and the raised glass bay. He wandered around the pools, all too carefully, and peeked beyond the frost-edged panes. As far as he could see, there were hills, terraces, and even a forest further off. Then, a striking mountain range. He wasn’t sure from where he was, but Sonic could’ve sworn he saw some of them floating about.

            As Sonic followed the Luminaria trio around, each girl took a turn explaining things. Nimue had a sneaky suspicion that Sonic was the type of guy who could eat a cartload of food, so she showed him around the Castle’s Dining Hall. The first thing he saw, besides the painstaking wood-paneled double doors, was the massive chandelier: Nimue’s personal favorite, the entire set consisted of a central “body” and three “legs,” which branched throughout the rotunda. Their rich, kaleidoscopic colors took Sonic’s breath away. “So many colors…they’re actually cohesive and cool-looking!” Like stars, the facets twinkled in the steady sunlight. Strangely, it felt like it was later in the day to Sonic, as if hour upon hour had gone by. Although that was probably the case, Sonic had a feeling something was off about it. “Hey, A— …I mean, Nimue?” The hedgehog teen was still getting used to the different names; luckily, he caught himself. “Do you, uh, have the time?”

            The pink hedgehog spun on a toe and blinked at him. “The time? Let’s see!” Her peppy skips led her to a grandfather clock that wasn’t too far off. The room looked like a multipurpose space: One half was for eating and the other looked like a ballroom. Nimue peered into the tall clock’s brass face, blinked a little, and giggled. On that same toe, she showed Sonic an indicatory finger that ticked at each pause. “It— is— First Diurne— my good sir!”

            But Sonic blinked in confusion. “First…Diurne? Umm…?” Then, he took a glance at the clock for himself. Carefully, he spotted the fine-crafted hands. Cut precisely and ever-accurate, it appeared to be the first hour of the day, past noon. _"It looks like it’s one o’clock, but it feels like three…?"_ Sonic made a thoughtful face. _"Time really must move slower here."_

            “Alright! Away, to the Garden Pleasance!” Nimue chanted.

            “Bu’ we jus’ came from ‘at way, Nimue!” But the raccoon girl seemed exasperated. “Ya draggin’ us ‘round in circles, fo’ crepes’ sake!”

            “Well then, where _should_ we go next, little genius?” The slightly older and taller girl prodded the younger’s forehead with a finger. Sparks seemed to fly between the two butting heads. Vanille, giggling out of embarrassment, was trying to get between her two comrades.

            Until Sonic spoke up to them: “I’d like to go to a place where I can sleep.” He stole a glance at both Nimue and Marina. All three girls blinked at him. “Doesn’t matter where. As long as I can be comfortable, and clear my head.” Sonic had crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed to be waiting, like a good guest, and hoping he didn’t sound too rude. The girls were a bit stunned by his reticent tone.

            But the brave Nimue smiled grandly at it. “Okay! Sure thing!” she chuckled. “I know just the right place!”

            And there Sonic was. In a heap of red pillows that were all-too-reminiscent of a pincushion. His nose twitched at the rosy aroma. Everything about it reminded him of a perfume Amy would wear for him. The pink hedgehog he’d been made aware of was already so different from Amy: While Amy grew to become obsessed with him, Nimue was a more big-sister figure to Marine and Cream’s doppelgangers. As her title suggested, Nimue the Valiant was indulgent (except in an overprotective way), outgoing, and cute as a button. Her comrades, Marina and Vanille, were also just like their modern personas— or even more Robust and Endearing.

            Nimue had brought out a large quilt and covered Sonic with it. The blue hedgehog didn’t stir. Which made Nimue smile. Vanille showed Marina a playful “Shh!”, which was rebutted with a tomboyish wink.

            “He’s been through a lot today, so I’ll let him nap in my bed.”

            The younger girls agreed. After Vanille nodded with more vigor, Marina’s eyes fell upon Sonic. His sleeping face had a twinge of loss in it. Something in it looked sad; a coy pink allowed itself to tinge her snowy muzzle.

            There were things about all the new characters he’d met that were radically different; there were some that were oddly unchanged. And it only made more questions formulate. But his grandmother’s unexpected, and unknown, death was what threw him for the biggest loop.

* * *

Gilt brocades graced the neck of his coal steed. At a healthy trot, the stallion didn’t seem to mind towing the fairly small coach. Polished navy-oyster was unmistakably rich and genuine, crafted by the most desirable pearl-smiths in the country. Working with massive hunks of wall straight from the Mausolea of Viole, the mister smith and his wife were particular about details, just like their customers. The lady-smith made sure the shades of color, texture, thickness, brilliance— all were perfect. The oyster caves were far to the east, the upper border between Titanic Plains and Hesroma Sound. Internal moistness contributed to the pearls’ malleability. And especially after a perfect mine, the pearl-smiths could carve patterns and shave out better-quality veneers.

            So, the coach’s navy pearl was considered his best work. The lady smith’s nitpicky tendencies had its advantages, it seemed. Even if Sir Lancelot was nowhere near as nitpicky.

            A patrol of four royal guardsmen trotted in a cowbell formation around the carriage. Watchful eyes peered out every now and then to spot any unwanted passersby. The black stallion snorted quietly.

            “We should be reaching the Fassa Thoroughfares within the next Diurne, Milord.”

            Lancelot looked up from his work to see the sky: still blue, still breezy. He couldn’t quite catch the scent of water, but he took a moment to smell the nearby wildflowers. Suddenly, his nose twitched. He lowered the parchment, which snaked over his feet. “Very good. Could one of you fetch that snippet of peppermint off the road for me?”

            The patrolmen just beyond the carriage veil made curious, confused faces. “Ahh…Sir, we beg your pardon?”

            “There is a pluck of peppermint off to the left. We’re passing it, so please hurry and get it.”

            The left patrolmen galloped off the road to find the plant. Unwittingly trampling over the other flowers, he went straight for what he thought was the peppermint. His ineptitude in botany bogged his judgment, so he brought it back with hesitation. The translucent veil parted only for a moment; the pause that followed made his guard’s hands quiver.

            “…Thank you, Corporal.”

            A tiny gulp knotted down his throat. Atop his head tufted ears twitched, stunned by his correct guess. “Ah, much obliged, Milord…but what’re you going to do with it?”

            Careful hands bagged the fresh stems into a chiffon satchel. “Why, brew tea out of it, of course.” And in a streamline transition, he went right back to reading.

            His black steed neighed, as if the answer was obvious. The Corporal tilted a bashful nod, and adjusted his visor so that it masked the embarrassed flush. His bushy red-squirrel tail flinched.

            Sunlight prickled the wafting veil. It was less navy than the coach itself, but the glistening drape was an added touch on the lady pearl-smith’s behalf. Lancelot had personally bartered nearly every piece of gold he owned for the carriage; he made sure the man and wife were set for the rest of their lives.

* * *

“Mail’s here!” Little Vanille cried out, an old-gold envelope in hand.

            Nimue jogged over while stuffing a couple more envelopes into her messenger bag. “Ooh, where from?” she craned her head over the rabbit’s shoulder. Vanille blinked at the very splotchy, gapless scribble and looked to Nimue for reassurance. A twitch crooked the hedgehog’s smile. “Well, I know whose shaky handwriting _that_ is, even without reading the name…!”

            “Is that for me?”

            Nimue and Vanille perked up to the new voice. In the doorway, a short golden-yellow fox was wiping at his forehead, underneath a goggle pair. His brown coveralls looked splotchy all their own, with coppery oil and a few nicks and scuffs. Maybe those makeshift patches not only fixed the problem, but were perhaps the most colorful details on him. His smile was on the shy side, mostly due to the indecipherable signature. “Looks like Old Man Nostramazakh has struck again?”

            “Yep.” A sweat drop plopped down from Nimue’s temple.

            “Hi, Miles!” Vanille waved cutely.

            A tiny blush made its way across the boy’s nose. “Eh, _Ave Diurné ,_ Vanille. Hmm…!” He latched a wrench onto his utility belt before seeing her make her way over to him.

            “Ugh, it’s about time you came out of your room, little sir,” Nimue remarked a bit smartly. But in the biggest sisterly way, borderline motherly. “All you do is tinker around in there! You barely come out to breathe— fresh air! And window breeze doesn’t count, you know!”

            “Well, I can’t help being so busy, Nimue,” the boy shrugged. “The Guymelef fleets need to stay in tip-top shape. Doyen’s orders.”

            “But no one’s piloting them right now, silly!” Nimue knocked against Miles’s forehead, just beneath the goggles. She puffed a cheek at his whine.

            “Come and pick flowers with me sometime, ‘kay?” Vanille’s offer was so sweet and tenderhearted. The activity seemed like the very opposite of what Miles would be doing for hours on end.

            Considering the offer, Miles took the gold envelope gently. The rabbit girl hummed, her head and eyes bowed, and body swishing her skirt hems to and fro. He was able to excite her by taking up the offer. She, in return, nodded vigorously. “Let me see what the Old Man needs first, okay?”

            “Okay!” She grinned.

            Just before Miles could start opening the letter, Nimue spoke up. “Hey, Vanille, where’d Marina go?”

_“…She’s supposed to be helping us! Oh, where’d she run off to…?”_

            An anchor-shaped satchel waited beside Marina’s fidgeting feet. Her impatient huffs were soft, annoyed by how peacefully Sonic was sleeping. While he slept his worries away, Marina and her fellow messengers had to report mail to different Castle facilities, sending and retrieving, ripping up and down and all around the big hallways. The Fanelian Castle grounds were huge, and she didn’t know how any of the in-house staff could stand it. She felt especially bad for the ones responsible for keeping them prim and proper. She even had sympathy for the Castle guards, the underling Squires Galahad and Lamorak, Doyen Consul-General Gustavio, and even the three Viceroys. Sirs Percival, Gawain, and Lancelot seem to tread the corridors the most.

            And with that, she figured she didn’t have that much room to complain. They didn’t complain, so why should she? An inner strength was sparked within the raccoon girl, complete with a pumped fist.

            Sonic let out a light snore.

            “Wait, the Fanelian Heir has been found?!” Miles yelped from the lower room.

            And Marina overreacted. The poor girl threw her hands everywhere in a terrible flinch. The stool she sat on rocked back and couldn’t balance her anymore. “Wah-ah-ah-ah— Oww!”

            Sonic awakened, sluggishly despite the near-simultaneous surprises.

            “Hold on! Where is he?!” the fox boy yelped again.

            “Well, he’s _very_ nearby, if _that’s_ what you’re asking…!” Nimue answered sneakily.

            Vanille giggled with her. “Yeah, he’s here! Napping in Nimue’s bed…so you gotta be real quiet. ‘Kay?” She pressed a finger against Miles’s lips. The boy blinked at the brazen move, his blush returning with a vengeance. He acknowledged it by nodding a little.

            Marina whined. She didn’t want to be caught slacking on the job. Her hands and knees dragged her around the floor, and her eyes darted around, looking for a hiding place. Soon enough, she dived into the pillows and hid as best she could. But her ringed tail poked out, curled with nervousness.

            “Ngh…? Marina? What are you doing?” Sonic wondered, rubbing at each eye.

            “Shh-huh! Do ya _want_ ‘em to fin’ me, ya twit?” That ringed tail flailed about angrily.

            “Wha…? But they already found you.”

            “Bah!” Marina threw her head out of the pile and saw Nimue, Vanille, and Miles, each with questioning looks. The pink hedgehog raised an eyebrow before smirking sneakily. But the raccoon girl five years her junior whined even louder. “Eh-hey! What’re ya lookin’ at me like ‘at for?!”

            “What’re you doing in here, Marina?” Nimue asked, bell sleeves crossed over her sky-blue ruffles. “Trying to get some _‘alone time’_ with the Heir?”

            “Nuh-uh! Why ya talkin’ crazy, Nimue? _I_ wouldn’t sneak off from _our_ duties as messenge’s _jus’_ to peep on him while he's sleepin’…?!” She huffed bitterly. Basket-weave sleeves had crossed over her chest, as well.

            But the girl had just incriminated herself. And apparently, everyone else had caught on to the folly before she did: Vanille stifled a giggle. Sonic’s reaction wasn’t all too flattering; _"That’s_ not _creepy…!"_ he drawled. Nimue clucked haughtily, “Ha. Hah. Thought. So,” wagging a finger in time with each word.

            “Hey! No fair! I wasn’t— honest!” the raccoon whined while diving back into the pillow pile. Her ringed, bushy tail was frazzled with embarrassment. Vanille decided to hop over and sweetly poke at the tail. But it batted back at her defensively. The rabbit griped a bit, defending herself against it.

            “So…this is the one, hmm?”

            Sonic dragged his sights away from the strange spectacle when he heard the somewhat familiar voice. Their eyes met. But Sonic was greeted by a big pair of goggles. A sweat drop clambered down his jawline. “Umm…you don’t need to be so close…!”

            “Nonsense, Knave!” the fox boy interjected, a bit overly grand for someone his age. “I want to go over _every inch_ of you, so that I can verify you…make sure you’re who the Old Man says you are…!” The hulking spectacles magnified the boy’s eyes from Sonic’s view. A bit too invasively, Miles started to examine him: From measuring his limbs with a tape measure and probing his ears, nose, and mouth to checking his reflexes with a tiny wrench and pressing an ear to the hedgehog’s chest, Sonic prayed the boy knew what he was doing. With the end of the inspection came a confirming nod. “Hmm…seems tall. Seems to hear, smell, and speak fair enough. Seems to have good reflexes. And his insides sound alright.” He was pocketing the tiny probe, wooden tongue press, tape measure, and wrench.

            “So, does that all mean anything…?” Sonic asked, just as plainly skeptical as Nimue looked.

            “Well, put simply, it could…if Escaflowne verifies it for us.”

            “Huh? You mean that big pet-dragon?”

            “Gah! He isn’t a ‘pet,’ clueless Knave!” The boy had suddenly gotten defensive. “He is the ingenious brainchild to the ancient, and well-respected, Ispano Tribe, the very tribe _your_ ancestors hailed from! Escaflowne is the perfect marriage between biology, magic, and technology— as are all the dragons of the Draconian Aerie. He is the Aerie’s Tempest Dragon, and only a wielder of the Sacred Broadsword Caliburn, imbued with the Magistralis Ensign is permitted to commission him!”

            The intensity of the boy’s explanation kind of made sense to Sonic. The “Tails” he knew was always passionate about anything technological, even if it was remotely so. And if his “Miles” knew what this “Miles” was talking about, his best guess would be seeing both fox boys geek out about it. What a strange, twin-like bond they’d shared, Sonic couldn’t help thinking as he shook his head.

            Miles patted a fist into his palm before showing Sonic a lecturing finger.

            “Uh-oh…!” Nimue shrugged. “Here comes ‘Part 2’…Blegh!” She spun on a heel and plugged a pinky into each ear.

            “But I won’t be explaining it here, if that helps.” Miles smiled, cool and cute as can be.

            Sonic gave him a confused look. As if to ask “Why not?”. Vanille had plucked Marina out of the pillow pile by the tail and was bickering with her, when Miles chuckled. The smaller girls blinked at him; as Vanille giggled in return, Marina bubbled a cheek.

* * *

“It would be much more feasible for Escaflowne himself to explain it to you.”

            Miles was leading the way to wherever he was off to. Sonic, Vanille, Marina, and the trailing Nimue ended up following the fox. Majestic columns, fanciful balustrades, and whimsical tapestries were combined into the corridor’s display. Reds, purples, and white were in most places as gold and jewels, blues and taupe, and porcelain or marble. Everywhere Sonic looked, everything was spick-and-span, but things like old weapons and books were left as they were. Sonic stopped to notice a line of framed papers. Each one bore tiny, scribbled lettering, and Sonic wondered how anyone could read it. But they ran down each page, like Chinese calligraphy. He counted them, and just as soon found himself over ten. He flinched, blinking wildly, and marched away like a toy soldier.

            “Here! This is the Aerie’s Hospice.” Miles was pushing back the armored doors. “This is just a temporary roost, so I can’t say for sure if Escaflowne is here…” he admitted, scratching the back of his head.

            Beyond the doors was a barn-like interior. Metal and wooden rafters stood at each side, and a pulley system seemed to work all the way around the room. Not-too-rickety planks made up scaffolding at four different spots. The middle was open, the roof spacious and clear, and strange tracks ran in the floor, as if for a catapult. Across from them was a much bigger sliding door. It was closed, latched shut.

            Sonic wandered in, shuffling through the floor’s thatch.

            “Escaflowne! Are you in here?” Miles called with a cupped hand. “Your master’s here!”

            “Whoa, wait. _Master?_ ” Sonic raised an eyebrow at the boy. Turning to him made all the color drain from his face. Froze him solid, scared him stiff.

            There was something staring him dead in the face. A featureless obsidian mask. Saffron eyes looked like they were painted on; they were pearly, wide, downright scary. Sonic struggled to catch his breath. There was nothing else on that mask. Only those catlike saffron eyes, with circular saffron irises and just-as-circular pupils. Gawking at him, motionless and overly focused.

            “W-W-What…? Is…? That?!” Sonic crept away from the black porcelain face. Before long, he’d tripped onto his backside, and was pointing a feverish finger at it. “And _why_ is it looking at me like that?!”

            The inverted-teardrop mask tilted to one side. Almost at a ninety-degree angle. Glimmering eye marks flickered between whole and semicircles. Like they were blinking slowly.

            It only made Sonic squeal and grovel towards Miles, who’d trotted over to greet the mysterious new entity. The blue hedgehog repetitive “What is that?!” while cowering behind the fox boy dumbfounded him— especially since Sonic was considered the Kingdom’s “Heir.” Questioning if he had ever seen a dragon before, Miles shook his head after smoothing a hand over his face. He sighed roughly, “You are being _extremely_ rude right now, you know that?”

            But the bizarrely birdlike wyvern cocked its head from side to side. Its long neck’s feathers bristled. It seemed to be blinking again. Curiously.

            In a matter-of-fact tone, Miles went on to explain, “‘This’ just happens to be a dragon, clueless Knave. This dragon’s name is Bastet, the Nocturne Dragon, of the Draconian Aerie. And _she_ happens to be curious about you, is all.”

            Sonic’s spines stiffened. A nervous smile quirked a lip’s corner. “Th—Th— That _thing_ is a ‘she’?!”

            Saffron irises constricted, the upper “lids” of her eyes slanting inward. Agitation?

            Sonic squeaked again. “Now, she’s mad at me?!”

            Nimue, Vanille, and Marina all shrugged. “You kept calling her an ‘it.’ Why wouldn’t she be mad at you?” Nimue huffed. The Junior Messengers did the same.

            “Wha— ? Wait a minute, hey!” But that critical gaze beheld the blue hedgehog, and it silenced him instantly. Such a serious stare: If looks could kill, Sonic would’ve died two times over already. Terrified jades couldn’t turn away from the angry, glasslike ambers. The hedgehog gulped loudly.

            “I think you should apologize now, clueless Knave.” Tails wagged a finger at Sonic. Not bothered by the hedgehog-dragon deadlock, he went on with, “Bastet is a crucial member of the Aerie, since she operates well at night and as a navigator. Her special mask, alone, contains traces of a miraculous substance, which responds to Gaea’s magnetic fields. Essentially, Bastet’s face can act like a compass. She can control its responsiveness subconsciously, and she can even point out any direction on the Compass of Seïhl’dr!”

            The dragon’s snakelike neck made the mask bob up and down: A nod. A bit slow and menacing, but a silent acknowledgement to the truth in Miles’s statements. Although, her eyes never turned away from Sonic’s.

            “Also, you should apologize simply due to her crucial companionship with Sir Percival. Bastet _is_ personally commanded by the 3rd Viceroy-Knight, after all.” Miles’s shrug overflowed with mind-numbing obviousness. The Messenger Trio nodded grandly in agreement. “Yea, ‘cas she’s the bes’ dragon eve’!” Marina cheered, hands in the air. “Yay!” little Vanille wasn’t too short behind.

            A cheerful expression overtook the dragon’s face. Upturned semicircles denoted happiness and cheer, suddenly. Even giddy tweets trilled from an unknown place in the mask. Assuming the “mouthpiece” had vents of some kind, Sonic watched Miles and the girls pet Bastet. None of them seemed unnerved by her appearance. In fact, she made silly expressions with the featureless mask. Which wasn’t a mask, but her face.

            “That ‘mask’…is her face?” Sonic was more than confused, at this point. “And she can smile, frown…and makes faces with it…?” The color drained from his own face. _"Freaky…so freaky…!"_

            One last curious glance from Bastet sent Sonic's mind into a maelstrom. Of complete unconsciousness. And utter incomprehensibility of anything that just happened.

　

_So Much that It’s Downright Creepy!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Notes: Here are my English translations to a few more Gaean words/phrases:
> 
> Atzü'lu's Midrift - lunar period where Gaea's red moon, Atzü'lu, reaches the middle of the sky
> 
> Diurne - Gaea's equivalent to an Earth day's 24 hours, but slightly longer. In that respect, _Ave Diurné_ / "Ahv Dee-ur-nay" literally means "Good day (to you)."


	10. What Does All This History...Have to Do with Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tales of Fanelia's past come in multiple parchments and collectible tomes, all of which Lord Percival has. Avid in history, she doesn't mind sharing some of her knowledge with the "promising Heir." There's a lot more to the Kingdom—to the world—than Sonic realized. But who says learning about it will be boring? :Working in Tandem w/Another WIP: Whoa! Everything here's got a history! Man, my History Class's got nothin' on this stuff...! Learning really is cool!—Cool!

Event Ten

 

It felt like daytime didn’t want to leave the Kingdom of Fanelia. But, finally, swirls of departing pinks waved farewell to deepening blues. Before the sun could completely set, last-minute preparations were made—inside, outside, and beyond Fanelia’s walls. Small shops and eateries in the Beaux Esprits were closing up. Marketplace vendors had set off with their goods, back home to families of their own. Pathways were lit all over, as dutiful shop owners and lower-ranked sentries nicked flints together into the avenues’ oil lamps. Smithies locked up, in-home businesses did the same, but nighttime places stayed open and welcomed the night owls.

Grand wings spanned from a Castle spire. Swiftly following sounded a sweet lullaby, as if to rock the city’s children to sleep.

Higher-end guardsmen exchanged shifts. Hawkeyed watchmen monitored the Kingdom’s Ramparts, or defensive walls. Torchlight blazed at the city-state’s only guarded entrance, the southwestern Euboea Belvedere, and along its welcoming bridge. The bridge continued past the iron gates, overshooting an underground outer rim before crossing onto solid ground. Underneath was a bow of torchlight, leading to a single entrance from both sides: Emblazoned onto the wrought-iron bars was the Fanelian Kingdom’s crest, that perilous dragon-serpent twisting unto itself. Bronzed metal glared out. A subtle shimmer hid under the incandescence.

Far beyond Fanelia’s Ramparts, Mercrusia welcomed the foreign 1st Viceroy-Knight and his royal caravan. Taking the same precautions as Fanelia, Mercrusian envoys greeted Lancelot with an almost musical _“Ave Vespa”_ , exchanging handshakes and praising his safe arrival. Just south of the Fassa Thoroughfares, Mercrusia was a sister-city to both Asturia and Fanelia, as the youngest amongst the three. Each city-state worked in tandem to ensure mainland security. Most of Gaea’s most well-renowned figures hailed from one of these great cities.

It was also the last city before travelers could wander out to Xeed Coast, or possibly to hamlets in scattershot encounters. Otherwise, the southernmost outcrops of Titanic Plains would leave anybody meandering.

* * *

Back at the Fanelian Castle, candle sconces burned in a cozy alcove. Translucent drapes hung over a rounded chaise longue. It was fuchsia, trimmed in taupe, and somewhat firm to the feel. Books were stacked by its little front feet. One stack looked taller than the other; piles for “Read” and “Yet-to-Read,” perhaps? Partitioned from the rest of the room, 3rd Viceroy Percival snuggled against the chaise’s back underneath satiny blankets. Gaean script was scribbled along all the books’ spines, one translating to “Sacred Credo of the Docile Woodlands”, another “Encyclopedic Fanelian Acquisitions, Selbadeiran Reign”, and four smaller “Psalms of Virtue,” each of “Courage,” “Temperance,” “Prudence,” and “Justice.” The one in Percival’s hands was named “Monarchal Diaries: Mother Larynn Selbadeir - Mother Helene Kyrie,” apparently the one she was most engrossed in. Not too far from the end, Percival paused. Her citrine irises reflected the candlelight.

“This tome reflects the blessings and hardships brought upon each Fanelian Ruler. From the first Queen ever bestowed the status, to the last recorded…there’s been centuries’-worth of Monarchs. Up till the first Kyrie…?” She thought for a moment. Going by recollection, Sonic—the mysterious rapscallion-turned-Fanelian Heir with a strange memory lapse—looked a bit like said Queen. She didn’t want to confirm such a likeness without consulting the Doyen and Lieutenant General first. Both the albatross and little fox were well-observed regarding Fanelia’s extensive history. An extraneous look from the old historian, Nostramazakh, would also prove invaluable. ‘Surely, Escaflowne can verify this, as well? The boy’s Proof of Contract is valid, by both the Paridisal Signet and Sacred Broadsword.’ She closed her eyes. The book in her hands sank into her lap. ‘Now, all that’s left is for the Tempest Dragon, himself, to decide.’ She stole a glance through her curtains and waited.

Firm knocks clacked upon the outside door. “Milord Percival? You have a visitor: The Heir seeks your counsel.”

A familiar voice. It was a Castle guardsman. “Oh? Alright, thank you. I will let him in.” As well as another friendly heat signature.

* * *

“Welcome to my Suite, promising Heir.”

A gypsy’s charm could be found in every nook of Percival’s bedroom. Glass beads and gossamery strands webbed the vaulted ceiling. The first antechamber looked like a waiting area. Short tables held different-colored bottles. Purely decorative; there was nothing on or in the flasks. Doilies looked old and papery. Even more colorful scarves ran across the side- and tea tables. A bone china tea set lied in wait for a thirsty guest. Beyond the middle area was a mystery: Heavier gossamer cut off visual access into the next room, which was Percival’s actual sleeping quarters.

The 3rd Viceroy instructed Sonic to sit down with her. The china waited, somewhat anticipating anything the hedgehog could possibly request. _Baípa_ , _lyumyul_ , and even _yirsar’lh_ were offered, but Sonic declined them all (merely because he didn’t know what any of them were). Nonetheless, Percival helped herself to one of the hot beverages.

“Now then. What brings you here, Squire Sonic?”

The giggle that capped her question made Sonic wonder a little bit. “Hey, don’t laugh at my name. There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”

“No, I’m merely not used to hearing such…vibrant christenings. Forgive my rudeness, sir.” She lulled her laughter, elegant gloved fingers at her lips. Her whiskers twitched at their upturn.

A sweat drop fell down Sonic’s jawline. “I guess.” His eyes brought his attention toward a golden candelabra, a bigger glass marble under each extending arm. “Anyway, I wanted to meet up with you, so you could answer some questions for me.”

Percival blinked at him. Daintily, she placed her rich-blue demitasse back into its cradle. “Were my Luminaria Pages unable to provide you information?”

“No, uhh…actually, I never got to ask them. Since I had a rocky run-in with Bastet— _your_ dragon, right?” A sharp gulp denoted the blue hedgehog’s nervousness. “But I apologized immensely, and I think I’m on okay terms with her now…?” Defensive hands waved with the show of a twitchy smile. ‘Or I hope so, at least!’

A tiny smile. “Ah, I see.” She took another sip. After a hearty swallow, she resumed. “You are still curious about your origins, your likeness to this Kingdom’s sovereignty, yes?” Warmed citrines leered up to see Sonic’s curious jades. Upon his confirming nod, she went on again. “In that case, I believe I should start from the beginning, a beginning in fairly recent history,” she began to explain. She put down her drink and sauntered back through the gossamer drapes.

The room’s candlelight flickered upon her exit. An ethereal vibe had wafted away. It made Sonic blink a little. He took a moment to look around: More whimsical glassware, more doting tea sets, doilies and runners protected precious knickknacks from rusting to the shelves. A teeny palm-sized book was on the table corner closest to him. But he wasn’t inquisitive enough to try reading it—seeing that it was in a different language.

“Here we are.”

Sonic threw his sights back to the books stacked in the felid knight’s arms. Carefully, she placed it between Sonic’s and her seat. As she seemingly paged through each one, a sweat drop shivered from his temple. “We’re not going through _all_ of them, end to end, are we?” he chuckled at the end.

But nimble fingers turned leaflets back and forth. She went from book to book doing this, flipping to sections that may be of use for then and later on. A dark-green spine was held open to a page featuring an overly intricate pattern. Sonic peered over it, and for a moment he could discern the shape of a gemstone. He blinked a little at it.

“We will only review what may answer your questions the closest,” Percival told him upon opening the last book. By that time, three books surrounded her lap, his lap, and a couple more rested on the coffee table. “The articles I’ve found may help in answering your questions.” She reached back over for the dark-green tome.

Sonic found himself sliding closer to her. Almost like a child wanting to read along, he peered over her shoulder. A bit unnerved by his closeness, the lady-knight’s whiskers frizzled. “Is that an Ensign symbol, Percival?” The coy hedgehog pointed at the page’s large inlay.

Percival smirked a little. “Yes, it is. One of the oldest to exist.”

“Ensigns can age, too?”

“Yes, but not through the same principles as we Earthborn. Ensigns are ethereal forces that cooperate with us. We Earthborn utilize them as mediums between ourselves, Gaea, and the Gods. These powers come in many varieties—as vast as the Earthwork itself!” She giggled.

Sonic could tell she was getting excited. In spite of his confusion, he fueled her zeal by asking more questions. He didn’t have any idea what “Earthborn” were; he assumed it was a term similar to “Mankind” back on Earth. And if these Ensigns were as various as the elements, how many were there? Hundreds? Thousands? But then again, the old-timer albatross mentioned something about the Magistralis Ensign symbolizing royalty. Now, Gods were being introduced? All of it was making Sonic’s head swirl.

With the books Percival had pulled out, she was able to explain a few things: Ensigns were apparently created from Fay, those little light creatures just like from the Arthurian tales his mother would read to him. It took a hundred of them to create the four major Ensigns—one of which he bore, himself.

“You, Sir Sonic, have been granted use of the Magistralis Ensign through both the Paridisal Signet and the Sacred Broadsword, Caliburn. Through the Signet, you’ve proven your heart and motives are wholesome and good. Through Caliburn, you’ve proven yourself worthy to wield him and uphold the Monarchy’s legacy.” She nodded a hearty, thoughtful sigh. “Just as I, Gawain, and Lancelot did.”

“You were all accepted by your Ensigns?” Sonic blinked a little.

“Yes. Through the graces of the Paridisal Signet, Doyen Gustavio contracted the Pyracantha Ensign to me, and in passing my trial with Laevetein, the Sacred Rapier…I was inducted into the Fanelian Noble Forces.”

“But—you’re not that much older than me, right?! I mean, you’re so young and, and _beautiful!_ And you’re a Viceroy, too? That’s a lot to juggle!”

Percival was caught off guard by the comment. She wasn’t expecting such a frank sweetness from him, of all people. The books in her lap waited as he continued on how such a pretty young lady like herself got into the Kingdom’s military. Not that being a girl had anything to do with it, he had to remind her, but the fact that they shared the teen age group baffled him. “You’re sixteen, right?” she heard him ask, pointing at her. But she corrected him, shaking her head, “Not quite, I am less than a year shy of it.” Her smile was cute somehow; maybe all the more so, now that Sonic realized she was a bit younger than him.

‘Then, that means…?’ Sonic thought for a moment. Candlelit jades wandering away a little.

* * *

_‘If my guess is correct…?’_

A well-crafted globe stood. The waters were painted crisp azures. Continents in realistic prairie greens, mountainous browns, calm snows and steely tundra. Assumed borders were dotted minimally. That belt of hulking mass served as the sole continent, and livable area, with its “heart” most colorful. The top and bottom hemispheres were most frigid. The brazenness of the arm strongly differed from the globe’s porcelain daintiness.

Its writing was clear enough to read. 1st Viceroy Lancelot took a good look at it before settling into bed. Daybooks littered his bed, alongside him was a writing mount, where he’d scribble notes and addendums for the morning’s meeting. The navy feather danced as he wrote. Candlelight allowed him to see better, but his tablet was right under the red and green moons’ light. He dipped his quill into the inkhorn before proceeding again. A teacup sat near the night table’s edge.

_‘Lancelot must be my age…’_

Across the rotunda, in the Household Suites, Gawain was meditating again. He preferred most of his clothes removed for the process. With enough mind power, he could imagine sitting over a volcano’s mouth— and the perspiration that’d result could soak through and distract him. Down to modest breeches, he sat in lotus position on a dirt patch. Easy breaths, solid stature. Not at all uncomfortable with it. His buff chest heaved every now and then. Seemingly with great concentration, Gawain got up and poised himself, as if ready to perform.

_‘…And Gawain is seventeen?’_

He hummed as he motioned into a set of stances. The moves were strong but elegant, quick but fluid. His cream-and-brown breeches shifted with the fancy footwork. The deep green stonework reflected sconce light off its bronzed Celtic curls and knots. ‘All will be well with the Knave, I suppose.’ His mind sighed. Dispelling his doubts, he took his place back on the earthy plot.

* * *

“Despite our ages, our responsibilities are indeed heavy but not intolerable.” Percival took another sip of her hot beverage. It smelled of chocolate and hazelnuts somehow to Sonic.

“But…! You guys are teenagers just like me! You shouldn’t be bogged down by all this responsibility! There’s a world out there to explore—and you can have fun while doing it, too! …This job’s gotta be stressful, right?”

“You are indeed correct, Squire Sonic.” Her serious tone created an atmosphere of presentiment around them. What was left of her drink slithered down the cup’s inner walls. A dark brown pool barely completed the bottom ring. “But you’ve overlooked a glaring overall importance in that truth: Our duties in protecting this world serve to preserve it, so that explorers and aspirers may have a world to love. Where there’s no need to fear or assume or doubt. This Earthwork is the only one we have. So we, ones graced under the Paradisal Signet, must preserve it, protect it till we cannot anymore.”

Sonic wanted to combat the ideology the Viceroy presented, but something stopped him. His understanding in regards to the lady-knight’s “protect to preserve” reference was not quite on par with hers. It seemed a tad extreme, what with appointing teenagers such masterful positions and relying on them because of them. Kingdoms usually appointed older people to power, didn’t they? This exceeded child labor, in Sonic’s opinion. And what exactly were they protecting this world from? Everything seemed to flow wonderfully; from what Sonic had seen upon arriving, everyone looked content, things felt normal.

“We are truly happy where we are, Squire Sonic.” A reminiscent glaze was caught in her eyes. “We’re proud of where we are in our lives. We’ve earned these honors, and we intended to uphold them not only for the Kingdom, but for the world.” A solemn nod. “It’s all we can do, here on this ephemeral plane. Until we are called to Paradise, that is.”

It felt like Percival’s wise smile flew Sonic to the moon. It also made a twinge of guilt pluck at his heartstrings. ‘You all shoulder this responsibility? With such pride and resilience? It’s crazy, but…?’ He spotted Percival flipping through a different book. It was almost black in color. ‘She’s right for feeling what she feels. And I’m sure Lancelot and Gawain feel the same way…?’ Although, the altercation between the aforementioned Viceroys was recalled. ‘Jeez, at least, I hope so!’

“There is one final task you must complete, promising Heir.”

Green wanderers blinked out of their lacking focus and turned to the black tome’s page. More than just a picture, Sonic marveled the artistry that went into the dragon’s lifelike details. The ebon scales almost looked like snakeskin, and something mystical glinted in those clear reptilian pupils. It had a more organic appearance than Escaflowne, however. Realizing it made him blink a little.

“You must follow through with Moloch’s Oath in order to ascend the Throne.”

“Whoa, what?!”

“Your encounter with Escaflowne was driven by fate. And to gain total partnership with him, you must take Moloch’s Oath. This is Moloch the Fen Dragon.”—She showed him the dragon again.—“He was the first Draconian ever to bond with an Earthborn. Fables tell us how Moloch met an Ispano Tribesman hundreds of years ago. The most prevalent one is called ‘Draconian Trust.’” She flipped to a seemingly correct page number and showed Sonic some illustrations. “It described how said Ispano freed Moloch from a sand trap set by backwoods thieves. They fought them off together, and through that act of selflessness Moloch pledged eternal loyalty to the Ispano Tribesman. It is this promise between Draconian and Earthborn that allows us to form partnerships with other dragons, for Moloch is an ancestor to all of them. Alluding to his nature, Moloch could very well be the Father of all Dragons.” Sonic spotted a demure excitement in Percival’s explanation. “And to have pledged eternal loyalty to the Ispano is astounding in itself; if not for the Ispano, your lineage may have never risen to power.”

Sonic gave her some astounded blinks of his own. “Whoa, for real?” He pulled up another book. Eager to learn more about his “lost heritage,” he looked to Percival for translation: Once his eyes hit the page, he’d become completely mind-boggled. She giggled out of embarrassment for him. With the incredibly dark-purple tome in hand, Percival continued to satiate Sonic’s hunger for answers.

_“…Indeed,” she had answered. “Moloch’s trust in the Ispano Tribe is what made it famous, trustworthy, a crux in the Worldly Balance. It is_ your _family that safeguards this Kingdom’s peace and prosperity, promising Heir.”_

Like a student who’d just memorized a lesson, Sonic cheered. “Cool! I—think—I get most of what you’re saying! Wow, I can see why you get excited over this stuff, Percival!” Sonic laughed a bit clumsily. “It’s fun learning about fun things!”

The informal address made the lady-viceroy huff a nervous sigh, ears slumping downward and crooked smile twitching her whiskers. ‘He looks just like a happy child,’ she couldn’t help saying to herself. A modest patience reentered her countenance as she picked up another barrage of Sonic’s questions.

_“And if you and Escaflowne can make a pure pact with one another—one of complete trust and companionship…I’m sure it will make this plane all the safer.”_

* * *

Scarlet and gold curtains enveloped the doors to an unoccupied Suite. Shown there by Lord Percival herself, she guided him into the massive bedroom. Inside was an ornate setup: It was the same room he’d woken up in after receiving the Magistralis Ensign. Now amidst nighttime darkness, Sonic wandered through the room. He managed to find the lavatory before settling into bed. The thick cushions and blankets were more than just comfortable. Lulled by the nearby candlelight, Sonic almost forgot to blow it out. Just like back home, he’d ended up awakening to his desk lamp before the dawn could have a chance.

“ _Ave Vespa_ , dearest Heir,” waved the elegant 3rd Viceroy-Knight. She lifted her draping robes and cape to show a curtsy. “Adieu till morn?”

Blindsided by her gesture, he threw a hand to scratch the back of his head. “Ah-hah, yep, I guess so…!” Surely, he was kicking himself for sounding so nasally.

But it didn’t bother Percival in the slightest. Perhaps tickled by it, but not perturbed. Another tiny curtsy, and off she went.

Letting Sonic drift off into dreamland. He was eager to learn more about the Kingdom of Fanelia. Its history sounded rich and mysterious, brimming with things and places— even people— to explore. He was even more curious about Escaflowne and the other dragons. Bastet came to mind again, and in it he wondered what nature she represented. The Sacred Weapons collectively seemed to have strong significance to the Kingdom, as well. Sonic wondered what other powers they possessed. Then, there was his grandmother; an apparent entire line of Monarchs that he somehow descended from. Curiosity was making his head swirl.

But, in all the excitement of a child awaiting Christmas morning, Sonic drove himself into a deep sleep. Just before dreamland’s gates shut behind him, he could’ve sworn he picked up his mother’s lullaby.

　

_Apparently, So Much It’s Kind of Exciting…!_


	11. Destiny Calls...and It Sounds Like a Dragon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been quite a few weeks since Sonic's drop into Gaea. Escaflowne's saving him from a flattening doom was really well-timed, as Sonic observed in retrospect. Yet another morning as an "unofficial" Fanelian resident but potential Heir to the Throne, featuring new sides to some old faces. :Working in Tandem w/Another WIP: Gah, I'm up, I'm up! Oh. Wait. Is that Escaflowne outside? What is he, the town rooster?

Event Eleven

 

Beaming gorgeous arrays across the sky, the sun seemingly rose to a Draconian clarion. The city-state of Fanelia was already awake and bustling. Children between the ages of seven and fifteen were heading toward a Georgian Gothic-like basilica. Writing journals bound in leather, the boys raced to the door while modestly dressed girls sauntered in coteries. There to regard the clarion was a well-dressed male feline. More on the stoutly side, the lower-ranked schoolchildren were friendly in addressing him: “ _Ave Luce_ , Headmaster Alfred!” The thickset feline returned the greeting personally as they entered the establishment. Smiling big and clasping tinier hands.

* * *

Speaking of waking, it was Sonic the Hedgehog’s turn. Although, it didn’t look like it. He groaned in his sleep, unsure what the almost chirpy trill was about. The plushy pillows and contoured mattress made it hard for him to wake. Surely half-asleep, the trill came as an annoyance soon enough.

“Unh…Grah, can all that noise!” the blue hedgehog groaned, with words this time. He pulled a pillow over his head. Sunlight was drowned out, but the noise persisted. Almost as if it was meant for Sonic to wake to. Another grumble. “Grah-hah…alright, alright! I’m getting…?”

Upon throwing himself into a sit, he remembered where he was. Not too sure of the time. And feeling apologetic when he realized it wasn’t an alarm clock making that trill. Blink, blink.

“Oh. Wait. I forgot again…?”

Sunbeams lit the bedchamber’s golden features. Rich furniture, furnishings, and trinkets glittered. So much it’d make a pirate drool. The dressers and wardrobe were reminiscent of Acres’ cherry back on Earth. Just like that childhood rocker. The bed frame, too. Gilded braids accented the soft pieces, like the throw pillows on the divan and the ones he’d risen from. Intense royalty washed over him in the form of disbelief.

“Whoa…! This room just looks…fancier, day by day.” He looked over his shoulder. There, another wooden piece— a bureau— and an exit. Not just any exit, though. Just past sylphlike veils was a balcony. Sonic threw back his bed sheets and trotted over to the glass. Rich wood hemmed it in, and the glass was untouched. Cautious not to ruin it, Sonic peered out. “Cool. I can see the Titanic Plains from here!”

As the sun took its time showing itself, Sonic explored the room some more. Softness contoured his bare feet; Persian in every way, except the fact it was from Persia. The room open up to him in welcome. Natural curiosity soon took over as he peeked through drawers and at shiny objects. A tall armoire caught Sonic’s eye. Handles also gilded, he threw open the doors. And was greeted by an array of colors.

“Holy moly,” he cried, “what a selection!”

Suddenly, there came knocking. Someone was at his door? At— whatever hour it was? It began to sense for Sonic, since he was awake himself. “Uhh…yes, who is it?” he called back.

“Please excuse me, Heir,” a boyish voice on the end began, “but we were instructed to check on you by the 2nd Viceroy, Sir Gawain.” There was a pause between the voice and Sonic’s acknowledgement. “A-Are you decent, Heir?”

“Sure. Yeah, I’m decent. C’mon in, guys!” Then, with a pang of shock, “Hey, hold on, how many of you are there?!”

Before anything else could escape Sonic’s mouth, a pair of familiar Squires entered. Unarmored, two teenage knights-in-training, Galahad and Lamorak, greeted Sonic. The more reserved Galahad donned aquatic colors, featuring aquamarine bobbles and sea green garments. A string of pearls dangled from one side of his circlet. His friendly rival, Lamorak, sported more forest-like hues, more jade greens than sea ones. Details showed hints of crimson and mahogany, especially in the wooden box he kept at his hip. A perfect cube with an antiquated latch. Royal red feathers contrasted the natural green crest, on each side. Tribal in a sense, Sonic didn’t question it.

Just the faces both Squires made. He had pulled on a tunic just in time, to save their eyes and his dignity. Tugging the hem down, Sonic grinned. It was big, and awkward. Enough for Galahad to shiver, and Lamorak to squawk.

“What in the name of the Gods are you doing, Heir?! That texture doesn’t complement your coat at all!”

**Thwack!**

Lamorak tugged Galahad over to the armoire and made him hold the clothes he picked out. Sonic, however, was frozen for a little while. An edge of relief made his head turn. Rigidly, like a creaky doll’s. ‘He bypasses the fact that he almost saw me _in the nude_ …just to critique my impromptu fashion sense. What.’ The pap on his cheek flashed pink. ‘Did he _really_ just hit me _in the face_ for that?’ Something very red began to swell at his temple, however.

“Good. Now, you’re presentable.”

In spite of Lamorak’s arrogant air, he had a good sense of coordination. It was something Sonic couldn’t deny. Lamorak put together a taupe jerkin, cream blouse, and short overalls that stopped under the knees. He rejected the newer shoes, after frantically searching for his. Lamorak didn’t like the clash Sonic’s track shoes brought, but Galahad managed to speak a positive affirmation. A somewhat sporty look, Galahad clapped gently.

“It’s time for us to take you to the Dining Hall,” Lamorak went on, grasping the door handle. Galahad smiled, adding, “Please allow us to escort you, Promising Heir.”

Just outside of Sonic’s fancy bedroom was a large round space. He remembered it from when he stopped by Percival’s room. It was nighttime then; now, he could take in its true magnificence. The mosaic looked like milky pearls with blues translucent like the actual sky, accompanied by chips of a more steely sibling, earthy jade, and lustrous vermeil. It was crowned with a glossy oxblood ring. It was so big that Sonic wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Sure to be a picture, though. But he noticed the colors and tied them in with the ones the Viceroys donned.

In the weeks that had passed, Sonic noticed the Viceroys’ wardrobes more and more. Today was different, too. As the trio in question stood before him, their outfits had changed, Percival and Lancelot’s more so than Gawain’s. The Viceroy echidna didn’t look too different from when they’d first met; only a swap in color— more olive- than hunter-green. He seemed to stick with the same general layout in his dress, too. Despite being third-in-command, Percival still looked like a disciplinarian. Looking stricter with her tamer’s gloves and leather striders. The peplum look stayed, which Sonic was becoming increasingly fond of, for some inexplicable reason. Lancelot was probably the only one who most noticeably changed to Sonic: Since the asymmetrical tunic he’d returned from Mercrusia in, Lancelot donned something that looked like a sleeveless trench coat. Those three disks were still his signature. Underneath was a beige blouson, overalls akin to Sonic’s but gunmetal-gray, and weathered boots.

Sonic tilted his head, watching Galahad and Lamorak cross over to join them, turn to Sonic, and lead them all into a graceful bow. “ _Ave Luce_ , Promising Heir,” came a simultaneous harmony. He couldn’t help gawping at them. When his eyes met with Percival’s, she merely giggled. “‘Tis Morning Repast, so let us make our way to the Dining Hall. Shall we?”

Altogether, Sonic found himself in the middle row. Walking in two-by-threes, Gawain and Lancelot took a wordless lead. Galahad and Lamorak chatted quietly together. While Percival stood tall as she strode. Hands modestly at her front, she didn’t seem to mind being the only girl in the group. But Sonic couldn’t help wondering. _“Wow, she_ is _the only girl…!”_ his brain remarked. Then, grinning to himself, _“And she’s a pretty tough cookie, to boot! Too sweet!”_

“Aye. Dining Hall’s here.” Both Gawain and Lancelot took up a handle. “Welcome, Promising Heir,” Lancelot greeted while mirroring Gawain’s bow and pull.

Inside, a grand setup pulled together all its complexity. Tables, round and piled, sat near each corner of a much longer one. Flower arrangements centered each one, while the long table was brimmed by flat-, silver-, and glassware. Crystalline goblets had not yet been filled. Forks, spoons, even the knives looks petite. Napkins rested underneath in decorative triangles. Plates, bowls, and demitasses were cradled by familial saucers. Every piece was empty. But the uniformed Sylvine Luminaria was there to explain.

“Good morning, everybody!” Nimue was as cheery as could be. Somehow showing off a monotonous color scale, sky-blue only appeared on her headband and tiny heels. They clacked against the floor. “Have a seat anywhere you like! We, the Sylvine Luminaria, will be your chief-servers for today!” She saluted, all too girlish. “‘Maid-up’ just for you, I’m the Captain and ‘most valiant,’ Nimue Homina!”

“Hey! We ain’t named no Cappin yet, Nimue!” Marina harped from across the floor. Her outfit mimicked Nimue’s, but with pea-green ribbons at her “boomerang-tails” and just-as-green boots. “That ain’t fair an’ you know it! Take all ‘at back an’ start ove’ again!”

Placing a full ice-water pitcher into her hands, Nimue snapped back with, “No way! I don’t need to because I’m simply introducing myself, as a good hostess should…right, Vanille?” She hiked her nose into the air.

Holding a little serving tray of her own, the rabbit girl struggled to balance a porridge bowl. When Nimue helped her secure it, she nodded carefully in order to maintain her flower crown. “Mm-hmm! Captain’s orders, Marina!” Vanille giggled, prancing off in orange loafers with the hot cereal.

The hot-headed raccoon seemed ready to throw the tea pot at the self-proclaimed Captain. Cheeks puffed up and ringed tail curled, she stamped off.

“I hope everyone’s comfortable. Shall we begin with morning grace?”

Sonic found himself at the head of the table. Naturally, for any prospective heir, he supposed. Both hands taken up, he followed Marina and Nimue’s gesture of bowing their heads. After seeing Lancelot stand from his seat and lead everyone in prayer. A somewhat solemn cadence for a thoughtful moment; Sonic felt like he was the only one who caught it.

However, he became distracted by the Sylvine Luminaria members soon enough. Nimue had to keep herself in check about asking Sonic too many questions. An instance when Marina had to butt in and take over. Poking fun at each other, bickering (like little girls do), with Vanille kindly leaving herself out of it. “It sounds like you two _like him_ like him!” The rabbit giggled, not aware of the full magnitude her observation brought.

Suddenly, Nimue’s face turned into a ripe strawberry. Unable to counter, she made incomprehensible syllables into clumsy sentences, somehow. Her fingers began to tease around each other. She made fidgety motions with her feet and torso.

But Marina’s face was as bright as an apple. “I ain’t got no _likin’_ -likin’s fo’ nobody, got that?!” Her tail frazzled. “Whatcha talkin’ about? Ain’t nobody here worth likin’-likin’ over! ‘Sides, I’m too little to get courted, anyways!— An’ so is she!”

“Hey! No, I’m not! _I’m_ closer to coming-of-age than _you_ are, Marina!”

Vanille simply giggled as the bickering match fell away from her general direction. Miles, seated across from her, chuckled a bit nervously. He couldn’t see how Vanille could be so content with her teammates arguing like this at the breakfast table. A tiny sweat drop slipped down the back of his head.

Pecking at his food, Gawain let out a rough little sigh. “Aye….”

“That’s enough, ladies,” the 3rd Viceroy spoke up. The “ladies” in question near-instantly froze and turned their eyes to see Percival dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “I believe that is enough excitement for this morning. Take a breath, and finish your meals before they grow cold.”

“Yes, Milord,” both Nimue and Marina bowed in apology.

Sonic watched the girls resume plucking up their food. Curious mahoganies bobbed between teammates; then came a tiny smile. With curious eyes of his own, Sonic examined the bits of pink on his fork. The utensil itself was somewhat too small, but Sonic saw it as a technique to curb off overeating: A tactic his own grandmother used.

Which reminded him. He shied a glance at Percival. “Umm…La— Lord Percival? May I ask you something?”

Lavender ears perked to the call. She turned her attention to him, and blinked. “Yes? You may.”

“About the other day…I, umm, wasn’t expecting to hear that kind of news, so it surprised me to hear that my grandmother was dead.”

No one paused, just hesitated. It was none of their business. But Sonic still expected some attention. Maybe the girls’ warding their eyes away was a sign of remorse? Percival didn’t hide the shame in her response: “Yes. Forgive me, Heir. Mother Helene III has been long gone, for nigh two centuries now. Even with all I’ve explained in the past weeks, you are still welcome to discuss it with me.” She placed her napkin atop her empty plate. “The Third Helene’s reign is celebrated even to this day…” A gentle bend signaled her ready departure. “As the longest and most prosperous.” She rounded towards Sonic’s end of the table. “Plenty of blessings have befallen this Kingdom due to her just and vivacious rule. She lived a long life…but I’m sure Escaflowne will want to explain further, once you finish your meal, Sir.” A half-smile was made whole by a half-curtsy.

With a noodle strand hanging, he blinked at Percival. “Hold on…? Escaflowne knows my grandmother?!”

“Yup! He sure does!” Miles threw in, a tad enthused to explain. “Escaflowne has been in your specific lineage for a long time, Heir. As the Tempest Dragon, it would be natural for him to align himself with the ones bestowed the Paradisal Signet and the Magistralis Ensign, would it not? The same goes for all the Aerie’s dragons, actually. They’re all different cases…Hey, would you like to give visiting another try, Heir?”

Sonic instantly leapt out of his seat to hide behind Percival. The sixteen-year-old shook, knees knocking and hands holding onto her like a shield. A questioning look overtook not only Percival’s face, but also those of the other two Viceroys, Galahad, and Lamorak.

“…Bastet’s not gonna eat me on sight, i-is she?” He ducked down again.

Gawain sighed another, “Aye…” out of embarrassment for the prospective heir. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see, will we not?” he caught on to her questioning answer. A foreboding future: He couldn’t help chuckling to Sonic’s, “Hey, don’t even joke like that! _Not_ cool!”

* * *

In the company of the three Viceroy-Knights, Miles, and the Sylvine Luminaria Sonic gulped at the opening gates. Tall, iron bars raising, iron locks undone, swinging open torturously slowly. The dragons weren’t going to stampede through, were they? As Lancelot and Gawain allowed the others through, the children were the first ones inside. Specifically, the girls.

“Bastet, Valborga, Arysariel, Escaflowne! Your masters are here~ !” Nimue had cupped her hands over her mouth, calling sweetly. Like a careful big sister would her infant siblings.

“Time for Morning Repast,” Vanille followed, just as sweet. “Miles brought breakfast, and your masters have an after-meal treat for each of you~ !”

“Wait a minute— Huh?!” Every blue spine on Sonic’s body prickled. ‘I didn’t bring anything! I didn’t know I had to!’ Sweat bullets bolted down his face. ‘Sh-hah…Oopsie…?!’

“It’s a hot meal, too, ya guys!” Marina waved them out. “Come an’ geddit ‘fore it gets cold!”

“Wait…dragons can eat…y’know, _our_ food? Don’t they prefer it raw? I thought eating raw food was better for them?” Sonic pointed at the sacks of cooked meats and fruit.

“Aye? Who told ya that?” Gawain had towed his bag toward a burly creature, much bigger than he remembered Escaflowne being. Bearing fairly straight horns, their hardness rivaled canary diamonds. So did the gleams in the reptile’s broad amethyst irises. One was almost the same size as Gawain’s head, and it discombobulated the potential heir. The coppery scheme suited the dragon. Its wings couldn’t be seen, so Sonic assumed they were tucked in. A blink from the behemoth tightened Sonic’s “mum lips.” Another brutal stare-down; Sonic was certain that this was a silent initiation amongst both the dragons and their masters.

Although, Gawain appeared completely unaware as he poured out his bag’s contents onto the floor. “Draconians ain’t like the Fauna, lad. They’re more sentient than Fauna, since they’ve evolved from the souls of Earthborn. With each Oath they take, a sliver of the Earthborn’s soul is ingested through their blood.” Gawain’s explanation grew increasingly morbid as Sonic watched him collect the foods that tried to escape. The massive dragon, Valborga, took its time with its meal. “So, with each sliver of soul, the dragons became more and more like us, capable of thinking, feeling, and empathizing like us. Each varies in intelligence, but none of ‘em are stupid, Knave.” The echidna stroked one of Valborga’s horns with a handkerchief. Was he shining it? “So watch your mouth ‘round ‘em, yeah?”

A content smile had grown across the 2nd Viceroy’s face. Did he enjoy tending to Valborga? The dragon munched calmly with an almost sleepy frown. A couple friendly pats on its snout brought it out of its daydreams. A low rumble signaled alertness.

Sonic took a step back. “Ah, yeah. Good point…heh heh,” followed a nervous chortle and hand wave. He took a moment to observe the other dragons that had crept out of the shadows: Bastet’s neck danced from under a shady loft and observed the food Percival had brought, after a few good tugs. Percival pulled out each bit of meat and fruit and showed it to Bastet, explaining what each one was. As if Bastet had never seen a cooked fowl or an apple before. Sonic blinked wildly, watching Bastet decline over half the sack’s contents. Apparently, she was an herbivore because she only ate the fruit. That sight in itself was confusing: Just what had the fruit disappeared through? However it was done, she looked happy and complacent with her breakfast. A twittering sound whistled from her face “grille.” Percival giggled, apologizing for her neglect regarding the Nocturne Dragon’s diet.

“I wonder if Escaflowne’s the same way…?” Sonic mumbled to himself, unsure of how to go about feeding him. A hand dug into the bag, a thought to mimic Percival’s technique clicking in his mind. He brought out an apple. Catching another glance at Percival, Sonic saw her hand Gawain the bag of uneaten meat. Which was subsequently dumped for Valborga to finish. “Hmm…Hey, Escaflowne?”

But there was no answer.

“Umm?” Sonic swapped his eyes to different spots. Empty lofts and sunlit dens showed no Tempest Dragon. “Hey? Where’s Escaflowne?”

“He’s probably outside,” Miles surmised, heading towards the outside hangar doors. “Flying around, as per usual. If you call him, he might give you a ride!” The fox boy chuckled.

“Heh!” A cool toss and landing of the apple preceded a clever smirk. “I think I’ve got an idea!”

Watching as he dashed towards the open doors, Miles gasped. “Gah! Wait, what’re you— ?”

“If there’s even an inkling of trust between us, then we’re gonna prove it right now!” The breakfast sack at his back and running near full speed, Sonic leapt out. The sack’s weight didn’t affect the leap’s distance too bad. It was far enough to realize how high up he truly was. The morning sky was so bright and vast. Growing brighter and vaster as he descended. A strong, faithful cry: “Escaflowne! Breakfast time!”

And before the thickets below could reach up and scratch him, the Tempest Dragon chirruped in and caught Sonic by the bag. A pause in flight allowed him to redirect himself skyward. “Wahoo! Yeah!” Sonic cheered. “I knew it! This is so cool!” But a heart-dropping gawk made Sonic realize Escaflowne’s talons were ripping the burlap apart. “Uhh…Escaflowne? The bag, it’s— Holy crap!”

Fluttering alongside the burlap shreds were the contents of the sack. The food plummeted, and seemingly landed in inconvenient places: Like on the amphitheater steps, in trees, in a fountain, a pomegranate would’ve pelted a groundskeeper in the head, had he not crouched. Unsavory looks speared him and Escaflowne. A humiliated “Sorry~ !” had fists shaken and tongues stuck out at it. “Heh, looks like I owe you some food, huh?”

An annoyance vein comically pulsed at the dragon’s jaw.

Upon returning to the hangar, Escaflowne glued his sights on Sonic. Even though the hedgehog had profusely apologized and promised to bring a doubled helping for tomorrow’s Repast, the dragon’s eyes were not swayed. “At least we were able to prove our trust quotient, right?” The scratch between Sonic’s head quills made Escaflowne’s head tilt a bit. “…Right, right, not the point…right.” Another awkward chuckle.

Lancelot remained seated next to a somewhat streamline serpent. One of its bat-like wings flared over him, providing a calm shade for itself and its master. Both were wordless. Neither of them seemed to have any commentary in mind or on their tongue tips. The serpent’s steel-blue scales feigned a more jet-black sheen. A snakelike tongue felt around a jewel-like rock before lassoing it into its mouth. Lancelot’s hand went back into a smaller bag and pulled out another shiny rock. What would have been teeth-shattering crunching sounds were muffled with ease.

“Time for your check-ups, everyone!”

Both the dragons and its master glanced at the Sylvine Luminaria, now outfitted as junior nurses. Complete with pillbox hats and messenger bags of individualized tastes. Nimue winked, while Marina toted a tray with an array of tools on it. Vanille linked arms with Miles, who’d donned a stethoscope and laboratory-esque coat. The goggles gleamed from readjustment. “Now that you’ve eaten, we should check your Energist levels. Arysariel, you seem to have eaten green Energist ores, so your levels shouldn’t rise too much. It’s good to check, though.” The fox boy grinned.

With the girls helping around the check-up area, Miles went on to examine the remaining Draconian Aerie members. Gawain had to wave him off because Valborga appeared to have dozed off.

“Everyone’s check-ups will end shortly. Please feel free to relax in the dens, if you wish.”

“Doctor” Miles tended to each Aerie dragon, that was alert. Seeing that Valborga was the only one sleeping, Miles decided to check him last. According to the smiles he made, Sonic could say everyone was in good health. But those palm-sized rocks baffled him, especially after seeing Lancelot’s dragon eat it without any problems. He’d signaled a point at the tiny satchel hanging from Lancelot’s beltline.

Percival blinked a little; then, pulled out one of her own. “These are Energists. Energists are crystalline ores mined from the Floresta Mountains,” she began with a leading finger going towards a distant mountain range, “which is also where the Draconian Aerie permanently dwell.”

It was Sonic’s turn to blink. “You mean they really live there? Is this just a hotel for them, then?”

“It’s an equivalent to one, Heir.” Miles was recording Bastet’s temperature when he answered. “This is merely a hospice— a place for them to relax, but also to be at attention at any given moment. They are the Viceroy-Knights’ Cavalry, after all.”

Rich peridots scanned each face when he clarified that: The moment they turned on Bastet, she blinked at him. Her attention drifted away, as Percival cooed lovingly at her for “being such a good patient” for Miles. Adoration denoted her features, as dreamy half-moons for eyes and a purring that sounded more like a dove call. A tender nuzzle was shared between the two. “Good girl,” Percival hummed in a motherly tone.

“It’s also where Old Man Nostramazakh stays, yea?” Gawain wondered.

Putting away his stethoscope, Miles nodded vigorously. “Yep, sure is! Thinking about paying him a visit, 2nd Viceroy?”

“Ehh…I might, when Valborga here ain’t countin’ sheep.” Gawain snorted playfully at the dragon. Quiet like a field mouse, Miles scampered over to take the dragon’s vitals. And the mightier, and somehow older, reptile slept all the while. Not the least bit surprised, the echidna let out another, “Aye…Hmph.”

A fondness for the sleepy-headed Draconian seemed to bring all the Aerie’s personalities into perspective for Sonic. In a way, he didn’t see any of them as a supposed leader or “alpha.” Perhaps in emulating people and the Fanelian royalty, they didn’t see one superior over the other. There was truly no need to compete if everyone was aiming for the same thing, right? That vibe Sonic had felt between the 1st and 2nd Viceroys hadn’t completely ebbed away, but simmered to a vast degree. It felt like Gawain had put aside his attitude to hear more about Sonic, about his pertinence to the Throne.

A tad more patient on the matter, he figured, Sonic stole a glance at Lancelot. As he sat high upon a loft, Lancelot’s back was to the blue hedgehog. Curiosity poked at Sonic’s brain; he wanted to ask him something, but a sudden sparkle made him snap his lips. A quick glint. It made Sonic blink, drop his question, and slowly turn away. Only to lock his sights on the serpentine dragon, Lancelot’s partner. After a strange exchange between it, Vanille, and the thermometer in her hand Miles stepped over. “Don’t worry, Vanille. Arysariel retains his cold blood since he’s part-water dragon. So don’t panic, okay?”

A hearty sigh of relief huffed out of Vanille’s mouth. Which made Miles chuckle, scratching his cheek.

‘Part…water dragon?’ Sonic stole another glance at Arysariel, who seemed to be comforting Vanille with his tongue. It made snakelike motions by flicking and swaying oddly. But Miles showed an indicatory finger: “See? He says I’m right, and not to worry, Vanille.” Peridots widened. ‘He understood that?’ Like sign language. Was it some kind of code? ‘Wicked…’ Sonic awed.

“Good.” Miles turned to face the three Viceroys and Sonic. “Now that everybody’s in optimum health, I say a _real_ trust test is in order.”

Sonic flinched in an overly dramatic fashion. “Wait, you’re serious?! Why, I was being snarky! You didn’t need to take it so seriously…?” The glare of a hungry tiger gouged out the eyes in the back of Sonic’s head. “At least, not the me-jumping-out-of-the-hangar-and-losing-Escaflowne’s-breakfast part, anyway.”

Miles and the Luminaria trio blinked at each other. But Miles gave a nervous chuckle, while Amy stuck her tongue out cutely, Vanille toyed with her flower crown, and Marina huffed over her crossed arms, “Y’almost got’churself kilt— for sure.”

Sonic’s awkward grin had returned.

“A trust test is necessary, Heir,” Percival began to explain, gesturing accordingly. “Escaflowne must be able to trust you not only with his life, but with the Kingdom’s rule and prosperity. Remember, your heritage started from the Oath passed down through your family’s bloodline. It serves of tantamount importance to the very survival of Fanelia.” A pause, after she spotted a pensiveness overtake Sonic’s face. “Don’t focus on the seriousness too much, for now. Treat this like a trial. ‘Tis of strength, trust, and faith, Sir Sonic. One more, and you’ll be made official.”

Almost in unison, she and the two co-rulers unsheathed their weapons. Handling them skillfully, Percival, Gawain, and Lancelot showed them to Sonic: Aligned from the shoulder all the way to wrist, the 3rd Viceroy’s rapier gleamed in the daylight. “Let my Laevatein test you in speed, and in faith.” A stern smirk made Sonic’s jaw slacken; Gawain crossed both axe-blades out from his chest. “My Galatine will demand your strength, for without it, nothing else manifests.” His snarling face issued a challenge to Sonic, who accepted it with a fierce smirk; lastly, a reverse-grip poise kept Lancelot’s saber tip barely touching the floor. “My Arondight will gauge all, as well as your trust in both your Weapon and Escaflowne.” Elegant fingertips smoothed the underside. To it, Sonic gave a sharp nod.

“High noon, for one month's time. You will be training with each of us on a given day.” Lancelot withdrew Arondight, alongside Gawain’s Galatine and Percival’s Laevatein. “After the month's training we will compile our observations and issue you your final trial: Your acceptance of Moloch’s Oath with Escaflowne.”

A tiny gulp. Sonic’s eyes sharpened.

Lancelot glued his iron gaze onto Sonic’s. “Prove your worthiness of the Fanelian Throne, Potential Heir, for this is your final chance. You’ve bested of the three, but now you are to earn Escaflowne’s trust, truly.”

Sonic turned his head to the Tempest Dragon sitting behind him. A seriousness filled the air between them. Locked in an intimate vie for partnership, Lancelot’s warning lilted into their attention: “In your passing, you will assume responsibility for not only yourself, but for your Kingdom and its people, your comrades, your lineage, and the Earthwork itself.”

　

_And I Have to Earn Its Trust!_


	12. It's Time...My Training Begins, Now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it's begun! Off to a slow start, Sonic remembers he is the Heir to the Fanelian Throne. Which also means he'll be in for tests of courage, strength, intuition, and...tea-tasting? :Primary Focus, at the moment. On a Slightly Lesser Hiatus: Dragon calls aren't so bad, except when they're not made by dragons...I'm so ready for these trials, now! C'mon - bring it!

Event Twelve

 

Sonic the Hedgehog had to admit: His recall was not the best in the world. His brain was already a “working anomaly,” so he understood all his feelings of misdirection. That morning alone was confusing.

First, he was awakened at the crack of dawn by that girlish trio—Nimue the Valiant organized an outfit for the Blue Blur; meanwhile, Vanille the Endearing offered breakfast, just as Marina the Robust complained about how he didn’t deserve their pampering and insisted he’d do all those things himself. All of them seemed to bypass the fact that he was still in quiet cotton nightclothes. The poor teenage boy gawked at the little rabbit girl pouring a cup of—coffee?—and both the raccoon and hedgehog girls were bickering over which colors worked best together.

A head scratch: “Um…hey? How ‘bout I worry about all that, you guys? Marina’s got a point: I do need to learn all this stuff myself, at some point. Y’know what I mean?”

The breakfast tray needed its floral touch when Vanille turned her broad brown eyes over to Sonic. His gentle-hearted chuckle made her blink a little. Nimue reacted, similarly, before choosing between an eggshell shirt and a chocolate shirt-vest ensemble. Marina didn’t expect the blue hedgehog to side with her—on anything, let alone something like this. Her eyes followed his careful movements. “If you girls don’t mind…I’m gonna give this breakfast a try, then test my luck on developing a fashion sense in this new world.” Another chuckle, as he gathered up the tray. Hobbling sleepily, he set it atop the cherry chest resting at the footboard.

The Sylvine Luminaria quietly fell into a line and gave him respectful curtsies. “Uh, indeed, Promising Heir. If you have any questions about anything, please let us know,” came Nimue’s formal and ladylike offer.

The three girls were a tad dumbfounded by his calmness. Normally, he was a total grump in the early mornings. Ever since his unexpected presence there in Gaea, he’d complained about the schedules and the responsibilities everyone carried, and how “unfair” they were. Unsure of how much time had passed, Sonic felt like it’d been a long while. He was certain his grandmother was worried sick.

That is, if she was still alive.

An arrangement had been made. Sonic, falling into a freshwater river scheme of both the chocolate vest and eggshell shirt with cerulean trousers, wandered through the Fanelian Castle’s tall corridors. A tad lost and confused, he ran into a number of maids. In need of directions, he wanted to know where the Noble Forces Wing was. One maid was able to lead him to a guard, who worked like a transfer in escorting him to the Aegean Safeguard.

Vastly unlike when he first arrived, Sonic was now walking on the inside of that vast wall protecting the fortress. That wall has an inside, he could only wonder. But no one else seemed bothered by his presence. Soldiers of all ranks and skill bustled by. Squires seemed to be reporting to the same place. Even Galahad and Lamorak were present.

Sonic blinked—then wildly when he discovered the guard leading him the same way.

“1st Viceroy, the Heir has arrived.”

But the Heir panicked a little. “Wait, hold on! I’m _so_ not ready for this, yet! What about my—?!”

“You needn’t fret, Young Master.”

Losing sight of the recessing guard, Sonic spun on a ball and became flustered with wonder. The 1st Viceroy was accompanied by the Doyen Consul-General. A big room, brimming with eager Knights-in-training, enclosed them in a mystical adamantine gleam. After the guard left, even the locked door gleamed.

“Your Weapon, Caliburn, awaits you.” With a calling hand, Lancelot waved the blue hedgehog over.

Gustavio went down to kneel. Sonic gathered his wit and approached the two. A familiar sight, only this time the old albatross was at his feet.

“Knighthood Class. Give your attention to what you’re about to witness. This fledgling is destined to take the throne to our beloved Kingdom. His quest to that seat is nigh unto realization. His final trial awaits him…so keep all I’ve spoken into account,” Lancelot’s eyes faced the newly armed knave, “as he proves his worth and heritage to one current monarch-regent, the 1st Viceroy-Knight of Fanelia.”

Tenseness filled the air over everyone’s heads, especially Sonic’s. Caliburn soon awakened to the presence of the Magistralis Ensign, by encasing Sonic’s hand with a gauntlet bearing it. So did the adamantine glow in the walls. Galahad caught the brightening flash. Lamorak wondered what it was.

“Squires,” Gustavio returned to Lancelot’s side to address them. “This room is coated in a nullification spell. That flash you may have spotted was an activation of sorts. This spell, cast by yours truly, detects the presence of any magic within the area of the caster. Say, for example, if this one”—He gestured to Sonic—“were to attack me with wind magic…”

Only then did Sonic catch on. After a prompting wave from the old man, Sonic’s reflex gears clicked together, and he fell into an offensive stance. By some miraculous means was Sonic able to recall the power he’d somewhat displayed days prior. A lightly tinged greenish aura steeled his blade. Concentration was maintained as Gustavio continued.

“The barrier would, inherently, catch the magic and dispel it. Though, mind you, magicks do have levels. If his attack is too strong, the spell will break.” Out of the corner of his eye, Gustavio saw the steely aura begin to flicker more brightly. His brows dipped in anticipation. “Now, observe….”

A tinge of pain traced the outer edges of Sonic’s expression. A small grimace, knitted brows, clamped eyes, and taut grips on the sword’s handle showed how much energy was going into Sonic’s attack. It was a bit wobbly, as the blade’s greenish aura glinted more erratically.

Lancelot’s eyes flared. Then, a commanding bark: “Release it, now!”

Sonic couldn’t heed the command quickly enough. Lancelot dashed in, unsheathing Arondight, and parried Caliburn into a lift. Moments after, a twister of magic spiraled towards the wall. Gawking in astonishment, Gustavio watched the attack drill into the shining barrier, collapsing it into glasslike shards all over the room. The seated Squires flinched; tiny yelps escaped from some.

“Goodness…” Gustavio sighed. Disbelief fled his gaze’s glint as he saw Lancelot take hold of Sonic before he collapsed full-on to the floor. The knave lost his grip on Caliburn and rested there against Lancelot. He was huffing for air, as if the magic sapped the oxygen right out of his lungs; he wouldn’t be surprised if that was what happened. “My word, is he alright?”

“He’s losing consciousness, Doyen. Mind the students here while I take him to the Infirmary.”

“Yes, of course, Viceroy. Now, off with you.”

* * *

The morning hadn’t moved much since Sonic’s relocation. Mid-morning songs were sung from the sills of tall lancets. The tall panes were open so an in-house nurse could tend to a flowerbox. Bright wave petunias danced from the kind sprinkles.

The nurse was a somewhat tall brown bear. Her arms were surprisingly lithe, even under her blouse’s puffy sleeves. Crowned with a pillbox hat and wrapped by a clean apron, the female bear looked motherly and held a sleepy gaze. She pulled back the watering can to move towards the room’s center. Ahead, she spotted Percival reading. Her chair was right across from where Sonic slept. A wordless greeting was exchanged between the women.

“Thank you for tending to the plants, Brynn.” The cat-girl smiled.

The nurse smiled grandly in return. “If not for your grace, Milord, I would not be able. I give you my thanks, Lord Percival,” she added to her curtsy. Her sleepy eyes smiled once more, and she departed.

The door’s _clack_ awoke the hedgehog, though. Sonic’s groan caught the attention of the 3 rd Viceroy. Grumbling bitterly, he stroked his head. “Jeez…feels like a vacuum cleaner tried to have my lungs for breakfast…?” A tiny cough, then he checked himself. “I feel fine, otherwise….”

“What wonderful news.”

“Bwah!”

Lord Percival examined the strangely defensive, and over-exaggerated, stance Sonic had taken. A relieved, yet questioning, sigh passed through the cat’s nose. She allowed the boy to realize where he was, what he was doing there, and how he’d gotten there. “Umm…?” came the expected drawl.

When his eyes turned to meet hers, she explained: “You are in the Castle Infirmary. Lancelot notified me of what occurred earlier this morning, and he asked me to look after you for a while.”

Sonic blinked rapidly in return.

“A demonstration gone awry, I surmise…It would seem you will need guidance in perfecting your control over your aerothurgy.”

He rubbed his head again. “My…what?”

Slapping her book’s pages together, she sighed once more. But another smile denoted a nearly mother-like patience. “All will be well, Promising Heir. Let us make our way to the Library. Are you well enough to walk?”

* * *

Collections of tomes. Tomes of information, history, and references. All packed alongside one another, shelf by shelf. Cases, nearly touching the ceiling, reached towards a circular vault. Colorful glass depicted an unusual log-cabin design of three crescents, a sun-kissed white outer, warm orange inner, and a rousing purple center. The first curled into the next, and it into the last. When Sonic looked away, he noticed Percival had scaled down the meandering staircase already. He jogged after her.

“Welcome, Heir. This is the Fanelian Castle Library.”

The shelves welcomed him with the scents of antiquity; to him, it just smelled dusty.

“All kinds of Fanelian records are kept in this sanctuary. I believe you’ll find this one most interesting, at the moment.”

It was the book she’d been carrying. She handed it to Sonic. He saw that it was also one of the books she’d shown him in her bedchamber. It was still in illegible Gaean, so Sonic had a lost look on his face. The only thing he recognized was the serpentine emblem.

“That is the emblem of the Flying Dragon, our faith’s icon of worship. The Flying Dragon is said to be a physical manifestation of the Paradise Goddess. Her relationship with Moloch the Fen Dragon is very close: Araxes, a bard from ancient times, sang hymns to Moloch because he missed her so much. Those hymns soothed him and reminded him that he’d see her again one day. Centuries have passed since, and that promise was fulfilled…and it still lives.” Percival’s smile widened as Sonic flipped through the book. A pause turned his eyes from it up to her smile. He blinked. “Because Escaflowne is a result of it.”

“How old is Escaflowne, exactly? I mean, if he knows my mom and grandma, then he’s gotta be really old, right?”

A hum. “If you’re to ask him yourself, I’m sure he could recall your great-grandfather, and his great-grandmother, as well.”

“He’s _that_ old?!”

“Your family is old, too, Heir. You must realize the expansiveness of Fanelia’s history. And we’re in the perfect place to do just that.”

After Percival plucked various books from all heights of shelves, Sonic let her tell him about Fanelia, the Kingdom’s Monarchy, and his ties to it. Only with pictures, maps, and her translations Sonic was able to delve more into Fanelia’s past and slowly figure out how he fitted into it all.

“So, the Paradise Goddess, Sephyra, is Moloch’s…mother and wife?”

“Not quite. Her spirit is the air. She spans the world, breathing life into all things. Moloch’s perception of her was different from ours. The Mother Sunbird takes many forms: The predominant, and most well-perceived, one is her spirit form—the wind, the air. Escaflowne is a distant descendant of Moloch’s life-partner, Myriada. Moloch saw qualities in Myriada that reminded him of Mother Sephyra. And with her he sired a long line of Dragons; five in that line produced the Draconian Aerie.”

“Whoa, no way…!”

“Bastet is a fairly recent marriage between the Nixie Dragon, Isis, and the Mollusk Dragon, Kyrgue. Arysariel is a half-bred manifestation of the Water Dragon, Mordred, and Malundine, Gaea’s bodies of water collectively. Valborga is the result of the Bullion Dragon, Garza, coupling up with the Adamantine Dragon, Diamant. In all honesty, even with Valborga’s age Escaflowne is the oldest out of the Aerie.”

“Ha ha, really? Wow, I wasn’t expecting that!” the blue hedgehog laughed.

Percival giggled, “I agree. It’s something Gawain doesn’t like to admit. Surely, not to you.” Another giggle.

“D’aww, he’s such a big kid, isn’t he?” Sonic laughed again.

A hopeless nod. “Indeed.” A comical sigh puffed past her lips.

“There’s so much here, Percival….” He caught sight of the cat-girl’s sideward glance. “But still…I wanna learn everything, all that I can! So I can become a great king—sorta like Mom, okay?”

A childlike vigor shined in the boy’s eyes. Percival blinked a bit hard at it. Not wanting to misinterpret it as excitement, she took a moment to look into them. There, honest-to-goodness determination. They focused on her, awaiting a response. “Will you keep helping me? Please?” The book in her hands served as a bar between them. A tiny blush plumped her cheeks.

She couldn’t say no to the face he’d made. To the stern humility in his eyes. The salute from over her heart was meant for him. “It would be my honor, son of Lady Elena Aura IV.”

* * *

The wind was picking up. It was turning into a somewhat excited gale. Like a child happy to see their parent coming home from work. Feeling a familiar vibe in the gust, Sonic took in some of it. His half-cape flared around in it.

The staircase was tiny, stony, and weather-beaten. Compared to the Castle’s pristine edifice, it looked sorry and pathetic. Except, there was something rustic about it. A wide section beyond the Castle walls looked sunken, as if subterranean. The same stone that made the stairs also formed that subterranean wall. Grass and roots poked out between the cracks. They were thick roots; was there a tree nearby? Sonic was amazed by how well they held the wall together.

Atop the stairs was nothing but a verdant expanse. Rocks poked out of it helter-skelter. It was wide, and it was lush. Tall grasses bowed to another gust. Sonic was right: There was a tree nearby.

“These are the Titanic Plains, Young Lord.” Beside it, 1st Viceroy Lancelot awaited.

After cresting the steps, Sonic wandered towards Lancelot. The black hedgehog kept a close eye on him, a silently concerned glare mindful of any weakness Sonic may feel. The incident in the Noble Forces Wing had left him speechless. Not even his own apprentice, Galahad, had ever demonstrated such strength, despite his Knighthood training. He was baffled, just like Gustavio, by the mysterious youth’s potential. Many possibilities flashed through the Knight’s mental processes: He shared a wind affinity with his late mother. There was no proof that the late Queen didn’t have any progeny, yet there was no proof that she did, either. The Queen had been missing for nearly forty years. With the Fanelian King long gone, Lancelot was left to wonder.

“Hey, Lancelot? Is that gap supposed to be there? In the big wall, I mean.”

The black hedgehog halted his calculations to answer. “Yes. Within this immediate area are the Stronghold Vestiges, leftovers from a war fought previously in Fanelian history.” Sonic looked around as he explained. “Prior to said event, our Stronghold’s ‘halo,’ the Aegean Safeguard, was connected on all sides. Two of the walls collapsed, thus partially destroying security surrounding the Kingdom. It served its purpose in rebuilding the Safeguard, nonetheless. 813 years ago, after that war, the Monarch reigning—the first Helene Kyrie—allowed a reform to pass in regard to the battlement. The Aeolus and Valsiren Guards remained unrepaired, but it allowed easier travel between Fanelia and other countries in the east.”

To Sonic, it felt like a history lecture. Yet not just any history; to the Kingdom of Fanelia. It felt like a movie adaptation to a famous fantasy novel, and he was the star of it. Truly amazed by the feeling, Sonic smiled big. Another mountain range stood in the distant; it was responsible for shielding his waking eyes in the early morn.

“The passage is still protected, Young Lord, so worry not.” Lancelot pointed across the fields. “There, those towers you see? They are the Rhodes Belvedere”—There was one towards the right of them—“and the Naxos Belvedere.”—then to the leftward one. “Those watchtowers keep a hawk’s eye on the borders’ activities. The sharpest eyes in all the Kingdom, I guarantee it.” Lancelot’s gentlemanly bow held an air of pride. But another glower came over his face, seeing Sonic’s pure fascination and amusement.

Was the boy an orphan? He mentioned his grandmother quite a lot. But how—she’d passed nearly two centuries ago. How could he possibly know such an esteemed figure?

“Whoa…The tightest security in all the land, it sounds like to me.” A sneaky grin. “You take real pride in that, don’tcha, Lancelot?”

“It is time for a new lesson, Young Lord.” Sonic’s mischief was completely deflected; the teenager gulped at the unsheathing of Lancelot’s Arondight. Only to witness the Saber going into the ground blade-first. “It is time to educate you in Magic. I will begin with explaining what your Magic proficiency is.”

The air Lancelot had suddenly adopted felt like it came straight from Percival. Down to the finger point at the ground, telling Sonic to sit, the Viceroy-Knight paced back and forth, gesturing and clarifying as he talked. The high noon sun moved very little throughout the explanation. What Sonic did catch on to was the word Lancelot repeated: Aerothurgy. “Aerothurgy is the supernatural use of atmospheric conditions. With your Magistralis Ensign in place, you are able to manipulate, give predictions, and even communicate using this medium. We’ve seen your conjuring prowess, but it lacks control.”

“Wait. You’re gonna teach me how to control…the _wind?_ ”

“Yes, correct.”

“But isn’t the wind, y’know, a _force of nature?!_ I can’t control that—it just does stuff on its own! There’s no way I can control that!” Another light gust. “S-See?”

“…How do you explain what happened this morning, then?”

Rapid blinks came in retaliation. A question mark popped over the blue hedgehog’s head. “Wha-huh? Well, I don’t know what that was, but…?”

“That was a piece of your Ensign’s power.”

More rapid blinks.

“All Ensigns correspond to a certain nature. Yours responds to and employs the wind, the most dominant one in Gaea; thus, its name. It is a centuries-old power, perhaps a primordial one…As for mine…” The upper side of Lancelot’s left hand began to glow. It showed a familiar crescent. More intricate than the bolos at each breast, its moon phases differed from the others. Small sapphire rings dotted each phase segment; apparently—whatever moon it gauged—was in the waxing crescent position, since six of the rings glowed. “I possess a relatively similar Ensign, but it harnesses the power of water in the stead of wind. I bear the Lumen Fluxus Ensign”—He showed it to him.—“so I can command, communicate, and predict the future using the waters of Gaea.”

“You can manipulate water, huh? That’s cool…! Oh, wait! Like from that time, when we got attacked by those witches?!”

A startled blink made Lancelot gawk at Sonic for a moment. Soon into it came a look of dismay. “Ehm, yes, precisely…And once you begin to wield your Magic better, you will notice a heightening of your senses.”

Sonic gave Lancelot a half-confused, half-intrigued glare. “What does that mean?”

“Precisely as I worded it. As you become more acclimated with your Magic, your senses will sharpen.” The Viceroy stepped away from a moment. With a certain gait, his feet imprint the grass tenderly. “From where I am, I know water is present underground. I am so attuned with my Ensign that I can douse with my sense of smell.”

Sonic watched Lancelot sniff around. Baffled, the blue hedgehog’s memories came swirling back. There was a hedgehog from his high school who looked an awful like Lancelot; supposedly, every schoolgirl’s heartthrob, Shadow the Hedgehog. A step past Arondight, his eyes followed, led them to a nearly blinding flicker. Sonic made a tight blink to shield them. After a moment’s recovery, he saw Lancelot beginning to pat the grass. He seemed to be applying pressure to the spot. Muddy bits caked his fingertips. He crept closer to peek over his shoulder.

“Ah, a _skhelpa_.”

Much to Sonic’s surprise, a tiny earthworm poked out of the ground, almost as if to greet the Viceroy. Even more bafflement filled every crease in Sonic’s face. “I-Is that a worm?” His eyebrow twitched.

“Yes, an earthworm. It must’ve rained here recently.”

“And you could tell just by sniffing around?”

Authoritative rubies turned to face astonished peridot. Lancelot got up again. A blink, then a nod. “Of course. It isn’t commonly known, but water does have a scent. And the Lumen Fluxus Ensign magnifies it as it enters my nose.” A tiny rub followed the gentle removal of his white gloves. “But, with your Ensign you will be able to pick up a variety of smells. More training will allow you to smell smoke, herbs, Faunal markings, even other people from long distances, should you need to.”

Sonic’s eyes sparkled. “Wow, that’s so cool. Weird, but really cool. So, you’re going to teach me how to do that?”

“Indeed, Young Lord.” The Viceroy pulled out another set of gloves. This time, they were black. They never clashed with anything, though. A spare set? Arondight’s blade was jolted out of place, and came at him in a strong swing.

At a near reflex, Sonic canceled it with Caliburn. The blue hedgehog lost his balance for a moment. “Hey! What the heck—I wasn’t ready!”

“Oh, on the contrary, Young Lord.”

A terse wind blew through the Vestiges. A low whistle wailed past their ears. The tree’s leaves bumped against one another. The earthworm hid, getting back on its route. Perched yellow songbirds snuggled closer, watching over the hedgehogs.

Lancelot smirked lightly. “You were very ready.”

“I don’t know how! It just sorta happened—there was no control there, whatsoever, I swear!”

A sigh. “Nevertheless, you are more advanced in swordplay than you think you are. I, personally, am impressed. Such a lonesome rapscallion…but now, you’ve proven otherwise.” Arondight’s smooth edge was aimed at Sonic. But Lancelot’s stance was neither offensive nor defensive. “Let us continue your lesson. We shall move on to the demonstrative half.”

“But how are you gonna teach me to work with wind if your element’s water?”

Attentive rubies lowered into a soft close. There was a hint of focus in his face. “Wind and water work in similar ways, Young Lord. Although water is heavier than air, it bears the same amorphous, free-flowing property. In fact, handling wind wouldn’t be a very daunting task; I would merely need a temporary contract.”

Sonic handled Caliburn carefully. “And how would you go about that?”

A quietude floated between the two young men. Both Sacred Weapons prone, quick lunges from both sides forced them to clash. More strikes— _clang_ , _bang_ , _swish!_ —floated through the air. Intense bursts either clashed or missed. Sonic’s reflexes impressed Lancelot further. Confidence was spotted in the Blue Blur’s face.

* * *

“The Knave will prove his worth soon, 2nd Viceroy. You needn’t push yourself to the brink.”

Sir Gawain ignored the albatross. His punches became faster, earth-shatteringly so. His kicks did, as well. And with no one to contest him, he was free to exhibit both speed and strength.

Nonetheless, the Doyen Consul-General finished his cup of tea. There to offer him more was his personal disciple, Sir Lamorak. A hunter-green teapot’s spout tilted into its cup-shaped offspring.

The Gladiolus Arena was still verdant, with greenery and vividness. Irises, tulips, and of course its namesake cradled the arena floor, itself. Spring was beginning to simmer down in anticipation to the upcoming summer. It was a specific sign, according to Gaean folklore: Because Khümrolia the Conduit was slow in waking, she was usually the one everyone else waited for so her brother and sister, Esharlæsol the Pleasance and Tzu’zülumai the Ingle, could begin their duel for dominion. It was fabled that if a heat wave struck too early, it meant her siblings started without her. If the flowers, crops, and wild foliage continued to proliferate, it meant the duel was postponed. Khümrolia was a deciding factor when it came to summer, it seemed. As the Demigoddess of Earth, the matron to Dryads was a primary force in the Worldly Balance. Along with her three siblings, they were all tasked in helping to keep it.

Gawain could feel his adrenaline rush ebbing, now. Sooner or later, he was going to feel that leaden tiredness. So, before he gave it a chance, he decided to sit down with the Doyen and his disciple. Upon being offered tea, Gawain gave the cup an odd look before taking it into his hand.

“Not much of a tea drinker, are we?” Gustavio teased a bit.

The feisty echidna gave the cup a sniff. An herbal scent hit his nose. “Smells strong,” he observed, making a face and craning it away. “Aye…it’s bitter.”

“I didn’t know you preferred your tea sweet, Gawain.” Gustavio signaled Lamorak to drip some honey into the cup.

Accepting it, he retorted, “You don’t, _Skhänke_?”

Gustavio took another sip, as if to answer his question. A mischievous eye peeked back at the 2nd Viceroy. A sour look made the echidna’s face droop. Another slightly embarrassed “Aye…” rumbled from his throat; the albatross gave an amused hum.

“Hey, there. Is it teatime?”

Gawain, the Doyen and his apprentice gave Sonic their attention. The knave waltz down the coliseum steps, with Sir Lancelot at his back. An authoritative huff escaped under Gustavio’s smirk. His student Lamorak gave Sonic a quiet nod in greeting, which was returned with a playful salute. Gawain made no attempts to lock eyes with Lancelot, however.

“Ah, wonderful! Please, join us, Promising Heir, for ‘tis teatime!” Suddenly, Gustavio was making grandiose gestures and speaking in an event announcer’s voice. Finding him overtly out-of-character, Sonic froze midway of sitting. Lamorak clacked his beak together, startled by the display. Lancelot made an unremarkable reaction; Gawain threw a palm over his face. “Ah, and doth the 1st Viceroy grace us, as well? Perfect! We’re delighting in… _lyumyul sarte_ today, milord.”

Without much hesitation, the taciturn knight didn’t think twice about sitting between Lamorak and Sonic. After moving to a proper sit himself, he accepted the tea offered to him, as well as three dollops of honey, and partook in the get-together. He took a calm sip despite Sonic’s speechless gawk.

“Well, _that_ didn’t take much,” Sonic sneered, hiding his surprise.

Gawain stole a glance at his colleague. “Never does, really.” He shook his head a bit.

“What’s this?”—Sonic’s surprise morphed into mischievousness.—“Is the silent brooding knight, Sir Lancelot, an avid tea drinker? Well, wouldn’t you say?” He gave the Viceroy a couple brow flicks.

But they were deflected by an irritated glare. Mid-sip, the black hedgehog’s eyes pinned down Sonic’s. An almost completely sideward glance; Sonic wondered how good his peripheral vision was.

Gawain sneered next, “Yea, and it’s considered legendary that anyone who interrupts his tea will suffer the wrath of two hundred Draconian flame-throws.”

But Sonic waved it off. “Oh, stop joshing around, Gawain! You can’t be serious, right?—I mean, two hundred dragon-breaths? Really? C’mon…!”

Only when Sonic met Lancelot’s eyes again, in attempts to egg out a call on Gawain’s bluff, did a piercing ruby gleam beneath that helm. It made Sonic snap his “mum lips” shut, flinch away from him, and sweat profusely.

Gustavio guffawed, a tad softer this time. He had pressed his palms against his knees. “Ha hah, goodness gracious…! What pleasantries! Camaraderie, already in the works…?”

Both Viceroys and the Promising Heir took a moment to reflect on that observation. They looked to one another in three-way unison. Lamorak darted his own eyes back and forth between them.

“A silent consensus, yes?”

Perhaps, if Gawain hadn’t forced his eyes away to hide his heavy embarrassment, Sonic hadn’t recanted it with a “Nice try, Oldster,” and Lancelot hadn’t dismissed any reciprocation by continuing his drink.

A sweat drop fell down Lamorak’s jawline. “‘Tis a feat way far off, _Skhänke_.”

The Doyen’s face sank. “A wee bit far, indeed.”

 

 

_And, Strangely, It Ends with Tea…?_


	13. Slowly but Surely, Things are becoming Clearer to me…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training intensifies as Sonic's final trial advances more upon him. He learns the strengths of each Viceroy-Knight, and he learns to utilize what he's learned so far. Gawain's fierce strength, Percival's swift speed, and Lancelot's undeniable balance are epitomes of expertise to Sonic—most valuable to the potential heir to the Fanelian Throne. More about the Kingdom's sovereignty is revealed, and leaves Sonic a stone's throw closer at reaching his childhood dream. :Back In-Progress, alongside another WIP: Can't I get a breather or two...or three, or five? The time is nigh, I guess. Time to get even more serious, now...!

Event Thirteen

 

The rest of that day marched on. It moved at a refreshingly slow pace; normally, slow days would’ve driven the Blue Blur insane, who’d be ready to start a new day, a new adventure. A different effect was happening with Sonic: Instead of trudging through the daytime hours, adventures appeared every time he had a moment alone. Especially, when it came to learning about the world of Gaea.

Percival was hunted down for every little-big question Sonic had for her. Her patience and motherly warmth made him grin, eager to begin a new lesson. Sonic loved learning, as Percival heard him admit on several occasions. He’d just gotten bored with the “high school scene,” he said. Reading books for class and reading books for fun were two totally different concepts, and Sonic had to tell her how uninteresting high school was. “The subjects are boring, the teachers are boring—school is just… _boring!_ ” he wailed, throwing his arms in the air before slumping down on a throw pillow.

Percival blinked through his explanations. Things like “pop quizzes,” “semester exams,” and “prom” were mentioned, albeit “prom” seemed to be the only positive. In return, Percival tried to encourage him in those regards. She even pointed out the flaws those teachers were using to instill knowledge into the students. She created a verbal Venn diagram, coloring Gaia schools in blue prose and Sonic’s high school in red prose. Purpling the middle was both institutions’ common goal: Rapport. If students grew more like trees than potatoes, perhaps the world wouldn’t look so linear. Her whiskers twitched, her cheeks plump from giggling.

Sonic’s mind had been officially blown. Maybe that’s why learning felt like so much fun, he realized.

The Sylvine Luminaria trio was in their learning years. Vanille, being the youngest out of three, obviously would be having a blast. So, Sonic decided to catch up with them next. Much to his halfhearted surprise, Nimue was the first one he bumped into.

“I was just on my way to the Infirmary, to be honest.” The hedgehog girl flashed a cute tongue at him.

“The Infirmary? What for—Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m well! It’s just…one of the Knighthood Squires isn’t.” She chuckled a tad nervously.

Sonic returned to the room he found himself in mere hours ago. Another pair of nurses, the svelte bear and a focused vixen, were tending to a particular Squire.

“Galahad?!” Sonic flinched. “Whoa!”

Both women shushed him immediately. Even with his “Potential Heir” status floating over his head, it didn’t excuse him from minding his manners. Their fiercely defensive glares made him throw both hands over his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Lancelot’s apprentice was ill, indeed. The poor teen’s face was flushed; a fever, one of the nurses diagnosed. Surely, it teetered between 99 and 100 degrees. After a cycle, Nimue took post at his side. Sonic sat next to her and watched her tend to the hedgehog Squire. She admitted to changing into a nurse-like outfit—fashioned after the uniforms she, Marina, and Vanille normally wore. Much like her messenger and maid outfits, her nurse’s uniform consisted of a clean white-and-sky-blue dress, apron, and slippers. Atop her head was her pillbox hat emblazoned with a sky-blue cross. Slung across her shoulder was her red-bird bag. A most familiar multipurpose item, Sonic remembered.

“Let’s get that nasty fever of yours down.”

Sonic caught a whiff of something minty. It didn’t smell like the medicine he’d find on pharmacy counters back home. It smelled fresh, healthy, like it was guaranteed to work. Something about it made him smile. The hedgehog girl worked the pestle like an expert. The tiny mortar was the source of the minty scent.

“I’m grinding some peppermint Sir Lancelot gave me,” she explained. “I’m going to use it to brew tea for Galahad. Milord insisted me, actually. That was really sweet of him, methinks.” She giggled.

But there was a certain redness in Nimue’s face. It made Sonic blink a little as she tended to Galahad. The other teenager peeped an eye open after hearing her voice; a raspy, “M-…m’dear?” had escaped and it made Nimue jump in her skin. Thus, deepening her blush. She couldn’t hide it, and Galahad didn’t appear to see too far into it, as Sonic could witness.

While Nimue took a copper teapot off—what looked like a hotplate—Sonic noticed an interesting tool being used for her tea-brewing: A small disk-shaped utensil reminiscent of a strainer. It fit around the cup’s mouth perfectly, cradling the peppermint bits and keeping them outside the drink itself. She carefully poured the hot water over it. Apologizing for her surprise, she handed the plain white cup to Galahad and sweetly awaited a taste test result. Sonic saw him nod, “It’s really good, you have my thanks,” and aim a complacent smile at her.

A somewhat relieved expression fell over Sonic’s face. “She… _likes_ him, doesn’t she?” But it wasn’t paid too much mind as he kept the question to himself.

 

Sonic made a silent departure. He decided to leave the Infirmary so he could resume his exploration of the Castle grounds. During his travels, he found a variety of rooms, including Miles’ room—its doors locked, for one reason or another—a host of offices and studies, and even a bath. More along the lines of a small bathhouse, Sonic took a peek inside. Two hallways, opposite of each other, came in pretty pearlescent colors. The left seemed more coral than the right’s navy; Sonic assumed it led to the ladies’ side. Not feeling too adventurous anymore, he decided to leave a more thorough look-around for another day.

Right when he rounded the corner, green eyes spotted a little rabbit scurrying towards the way he came. An eyebrow raised, noting the numerous rolls of paper in her arms. “Umm, Vanille? Need some help?”

She replied with a happy and thankful, “Yes, please!” Then, she stuffed half the scrolls into Sonic’s arms. “Come! This way, M’Heir!” With a hardy tug, Vanille dragged Sonic into following her.

“This is our Messengers’ Outpost! We, the Sylvine Luminaria, hold the primary task of relaying messages all over the place! Most of our letters come from our sister-kingdoms, Asturia and Mercrusia, so it’s imperative of us to be on-time in responding!” She pulled him down to her level and whispered, “And it’s also our room, so don’t touch anything!” Cute roses blossomed in her smiling cheeks.

Inside, in a different part of the room, was an aviary. At her instruction, Sonic piled the armfuls of paper on a nearby table. Taking one up, he asked, “So, you have to mail out all these… _by hand?_ ”

“Yep! But they’re all for the birdies, anyway!” she giggled. “See? What we do is roll the letters up like this”—she demonstrated on the one he had—“And then, when you’ve got them nice and tight, you put them in this”—she showed him the little pewter cylinder—“on the birdy’s back. They’re even tinier messengers than we are! See?” she giggled again.

Coos and caws ushered waves of uneasiness in Sonic. He wasn’t too sure he was welcome, especially by the hawks. Their smaller counterparts seemed panicked by him, at first. Just as Vanille tried to soothe them, something else soothed them. A breeze came swishing in. It blew the letters off the table, but the birds nestled into cozy huddles. Some even tweeted a tune or two. It seemed to dispel the hawks’ suspicions, as well. Vanille held tight to the letters she caught, but her face broadened from a big smile. “Ahh~!” came an excited laugh.

As strange as it was, Sonic was calmed by the sudden breeze. Almost on cue, he remembered something Lancelot had taught him during their training session earlier that day: _“…Once you begin to wield your Magic better, you will notice a heightening of your senses.”_ Everything that was blown around did seem to make a louder sound. _“As you become more acclimated with your Magic, your senses will sharpen.”_ Sonic’s eyes gleamed in wonderment. ‘I didn’t think it’d happen so soon, though…!’

“M’Heir, look! Mail!”

Perched beside the carrier bird was a watchful hawk. A red scarf was tied around its neck; it bore that serpentine insignia—Fanelia’s kingdom crest, Sonic figured out. On the contrary, when the rabbit girl removed the scroll from the carrier’s cylinder there was a more mammalian crest stamped on it. Both the rabbit and hedgehog blinked down at it: The stamp bore a felid dragon on it, one with fanciful whiskers and a vine-like tail.

“It’s from Mercrusia.” The little girl blinked again.

So did Sonic. “Is that bad or…?”

“I’m sure it’s good. No worries!” Another one of those playful giggles.

The Heir followed her out, and took a moment to watch her skip away. She told him not to worry, that she’d give it to someone higher up right away. Perhaps it was official business? He chose not to pay it much mind as he resumed his solo tour once again.

 

While rounding the Castle grounds, the Promising Heir noticed not too many stairs going upward; most of them went downward, almost as if to go underground. He put into account that it looked like it rested atop a hill. ‘It must’ve been dang-close to a small mountain…jeez,’ the blue hedgehog sighed. A lot of walking proved beneficial to Sonic: He discovered his way back to the Castle Garden entrance, but refused a chance at traveling through that hedge-maze in order to find Gladiolus Arena by himself. On another walk, he also found his way back to the Rotunda, passing by what looked like a chapel. He backtracked and gave it a good look: He took it into mental account, since he felt it could be a good landmark for finding the Rotunda again, if he ever so needed.

Walking back, yet another way, he found the Draconian Aerie’s roost, inside which he decided to go and sit down with whichever dragon happened to be inside. All of them were present, much to his surprise. “Hey, everybody,” he greeted.

Valborga snorted, upon hearing his footfalls. Bastet’s round eye-lights displayed a curious blink, just as Arysariel craned his neck to see him. Escaflowne twittered happily and snagged Sonic with his tail. “Hey, whoa—easy there!” Sonic panicked a bit, “Put me back down! I’m not comfortable with the whole lifting-me-by-tail thing yet…!” The Tempest Dragon gave him a sneaky snicker before lowering him to the floor. His master chuckled in relief upon finding himself back on solid ground.

Only for Valborga to snort in sympathy.

Sonic picked up on it. Blinking, he asked, “I guess you don’t like being airborne either? It would make sense, since you’re an Earth dragon and everything.”

His understanding smile made Valborga open his eyes, stare him down for a moment—making the hedgehog uncomfortable a bit—and huff. A slightly acidic smell hit Sonic’s nose. His hedgehog spines frazzled. But he ended up bursting into laughter. “Yeah, we’re stuck in the same hole, I guess!”

Escaflowne snickered alongside him, nuzzling his back. Jumping in surprise, Sonic swiftly recovered and started smoothing playful hands under the dragon’s head. “Aww, what’s this—you wanna play?”

A louder trill escaped Escaflowne’s jaws, his wings jittery with eagerness.

Arysariel and Valborga decided to move and make room for the Draconian and his master’s play. Not too smitten by the idea, neither dragon decided to participate. Bastet, however, appeared nervous and somewhat wishful. She watched Sonic twist and turn as Escaflowne couldn’t resist tickling him with his nose. Simulating watery eyes, Bastet let out a sad trill. Arysariel let out a hopeless hiss. His tongue poked her face; he was nudging her on.

Finally gaining an advantage, Sonic drummed on the dragon’s metal underbelly. “Yeah, you like that?” The dragon let out another happy trill. He laughed.

A moment or two later was when Sonic noticed the Nocturne Dragon taking baby steps towards them. Her eyes were downcast crescents, sort of timid-looking. She even looked like she was hiding her face with her wings.

“Did you wanna come play with us, Bastet?”

She gave Sonic a shy blink. His smile was sweet, kind, and he sounded genuinely interested in her desire. He showed her a wave. “C’mon over. You can come and play, too!” His permissive tone made her crescents broaden. A curious tweet left her mask. “Sure, you can! It’ll be even more fun—twice the fun! Ha ha!”

Then, like an excited child, she rushed over and tangled herself against Escaflowne. Sonic leapt out of the way and tried to figure out how to play with a near-formless dragon. Being the Nocturne Dragon she was, Sonic learned, Bastet retained a semi-physical body at all times, but could change it at will or on command. Percival described her fully solid form as “nearly hard as steel” and it was enough to protect herself from normal damage. Her most lucid form was transparent, like a gas, but shimmery like oil. It was the perfect camouflage, especially during night missions. Whenever Percival got lost, Bastet would always look north to reorient her; the “eyes” on her mask would blink brightly, almost like a radar, to boot.

‘Bastet’s the offspring of the Nixie and Mollusk Dragons, huh?’ Sonic remembered seeing her and her master nuzzling. _“Good girl,”_ he had heard Percival coo.

A motherly coo. It reminded him of his mother.

Once again, before Sonic knew it, evening was beginning to set in. He shot a glance back at the Aerie and grinned. “I guess it’s almost dinnertime. I’ll be sure to bring back yummies for you guys, okay?”

* * *

 

Groundskeepers and maids were running rounds throughout the Castle. The suited men and dressed women bobbed up and down the halls, room to room, notifying the occupants that supper was ready. By the time everyone assembled, food platters would be ready to go out. Herbal, sweet, and tangy aromas swirled around in the Dining Quarters. Sonic found himself amidst a regal arrangement of tables: Closely resembling a wedding reception, he almost wondered who was getting married. There were even designations on each table—in Gaean, of course. Everything was set up in circles, forming one big ring, underneath the central chandelier. Off to the side was the food table; off from it was a slightly elevated leisure area, complete with pillowed bay alcoves, side tables with lamps and coffee tables with coasters. It felt secluded, yet very inviting. Sonic was silently impressed.

The kitchen aromas had reached their peak. Sonic’s mouth watered, and his feet carried him off to the side. “Mmm…Hmm?”

It was also where Marina was spying from. Through a tiny slit—for ventilation, Sonic was sure—she watched. Her raccoon tail swayed to and fro. It looked like her mouth was watering, too.

“Yea, that looks so good!” she complimented under her breath.

“Yeah, what looks so good?”

Marina leapt out of her crouch, crashed through the—newfound door, much to Sonic’s surprise—and splayed onto the floor. Peering inside, Sonic’s ears jumped up. “Ah! Sorry, are you okay, Marina?”

No one in the galley was pleased. A young scullery worker had been startled and dropped a plate. It broke, evidently, since Marina’s ears had perked up, as well.

“Ahh! Whattha—what’re sneakin’ up on me like ‘at for, huh?!”

“Lass…!”

A chill washed over Marina’s prickling fur. Dread turned her paler than she already was, her petrified eyes turned slowly to the Scullery Head. A lady-snake, vividly green in scale and red in eye, stood over the raccoon girl. Intimidation always worked best with reptiles. It never failed. So, something about her had petrified Sonic, too. Was it her fangs, her flickering tongue—she wasn’t going to eat Marina, was she?

His eyes darted over to the injured worker getting their wound wrapped up. He gulped.

“To the basins, Lass…!” she snapped, pointing at the three-out-of-four sinks that had dishes in them.

“Hey! He’s the one who scared me! Punish him, too!”

“Nonsense. He merely found you taking in a few whiffs…! Good on him, too, little sneak. Hop to it, now—the Galley’s started prepping!”

“Now wait, hold on a second,” Sonic came in defensively. He waved his hands in a downward motion at the Scullery Head. “Marina has a point. She may have been spying, but I, uh…got a couple good whiffs in myself, so…?” He threw both hands up, as if to surrender.

The lady-snake flicked her tongue at him. An analytical crease pushed down on her eyebrows. Roseate eyes leered at him. “Hmm? The Promising Heir admits to rude behavior? How noble…I commend you. And now, I must ask you…”—she threw her finger back at the sinks.—“to join her. Be speedy, there’s not much time!” she hissed once more.

Everyone was pressed for time. Even the younger-looking staffers knew not to dawdle. The kitchen sounds became more prominent to Sonic as he worked alongside Marina: He heard them every day at school. He heard them on occasion at Asian restaurants. He heard them whenever he came to sit down at any given mall’s food court. He even heard it from his grandmother—although, it was usually solo humming. But these sounds were different somehow. Sonic was careful not to get too distracted. But the Scullery Head seemed just-as-careful not to make everyone anxious.

An alleviating tension lifted off the blue hedgehog’s shoulders. He let out a similar sigh.

“Hey? Why’d you do that?”

He directed his sights to Marina after setting a dish to dry. “Do what?”

“Ya twit! Grr…I ain’t need your sympathy, y’know. I was gonna do it all by myself.”

“Then it would’ve taken you twice as long.”

The girl’s tail frazzled. “Ah-hey! I ain’t _that_ slow,” her remark came waspishly. Her eyes followed his pace across the floor. “I can do dishes faster ‘an you!”

“Oh, you don’t say? Well, I just finished my sink-full.”

The little raccoon blinked wildly. But an even more stupefied look make her gawp: The deep bowl was clean, clear of dishes, soap and debris, and ready for another round. She stuttered a bit.

“You might wanna ‘hop to it,’ Marina.” Sonic chuckled under his breath.

The poor girl’s cheeks flushed from embarrassment. And, like never before, did she scrub and scrape and rinse. Her ears stood high in agitation. “I ain’t gettin’ one-upped by some wannabe-knight—no, I mos’ certainly ain’t!”

A sweat drop fell along the back of Sonic’s head. Seeing her get so fired up over dishwashing did wonders for his ego. In a calm, albeit joking, manner Sonic mouthed “O-kay…?” to himself and went on to finish.

 

_“Ahh…sorry about the kitchen, G-ma.”_

_“I know you are, Sonic. But you know you’re forbidden to set foot in here again, right?”_

_I’ll never forget Granma’s tamed anger._

 

Suppertime passed. The sun waved the horizon goodbye, and Fanelian citizens acknowledged her departure by lighting the thoroughfares’ streetlamps. Dozens of shop owners and guardsmen worked around to make sure everything could be seen. An evening clarion heralded the arrival of night. Downy, ghostly appendages wafted in the evening breeze. A sweet twittering sound reached out to the Fanelian children. “It must be Bastet’s turn to sing us to sleep,” a little girl said to her mother. The woman smiled and tucked her in. “Yes,” she replied, “and she has such a lovely voice. Just like her master.”

 

Lord Percival sat at her alcove. Atop a mountain of pillows, Percival read under the Mystic Moon’s light. It was a nightly imbibe, a personal take from the fruit of knowledge. Inquisitive in most respects, Lord Percival could spend hours reading, alone. It was made into a post-labor treat within the span of gaining her rank and realizing how hefty it was. She never thought she’d become a Viceroy-Knight after settling for working in the Castle Library. And now, she was helping to train a potential seat holder. ‘Where does the time go?’ she partly asked herself and partly the Mystic Moon.

* * *

 

_Clash!—Clang!_

“Hey, hold up, I wasn’t ready!”

“Aye! Don’t you wuss out on me!”

_Cring!—Crash!—Bang, bang, shring!_

“Holy—would you hold on a sec—Gyah?!”

Sir Gawain’s Sacred Dual-Guillotine worked out fresh moves on Sonic. With each collision came another two or three parries. The echidna Viceroy was almost offended by the gestures, but he kept taunting the blue hedgehog to keep him on his toes.

Quick feet gave Sonic some distance. “Lordie, you’re strong as all get out, Gawain!”

The Viceroy rotated his shoulders nonchalantly. “Yea…comes with practice, and an aim.”

Sonic’s brows cinched together. “You mean Lancelot?”

The careful question came with a just-as-careful stance. Gawain took a moment to process the question. He lowered both axe-blades. A low snarl.

A gleam misted his eyes. “Yea? I misread him initially. His intentions, his signals, all of ‘em. He wasn’t after the Sacred Broadsword for himself, but for Her Majesty.”

Quick feet hurled Sonic into a dash. His careful swing was deflected, however. Stunned for a moment, he caught a bit more of Gawain’s explanation.

“That was our original task: To retrieve the Broadsword from the Stone of Avalon. The Queen never wielded the blade herself, so she granted a part of her Signet to her husband, Father Uther Pendragon.”

Sonic gasped. Only to lose his breath again to a floor tile. Gawain’s smooth movement dislodged the stone, to stun him, then transitioned into a roundhouse kick to Sonic’s side. He skipped across the Arena with harsh _ka-thumps_. As nonchalant as before, Gawain turned his back and continued.

“Father Uther displayed fierce, selfless loyalty. He fought for his Kingdom and his belovéd. The Kingdom of Fanelia was challenged by an age-old enemy in times past…and in it came tragedy.”

“Tragedy?” Sonic huffed. His hand managed to hold tight to Caliburn.

“Yes. And for His Majesty did Her Majesty reign. She swore to him a child, particularly a son, on his deathbed. It was a desire both Highnesses shared….”

Sonic froze. He recalled the framed portraits that lined one of the Castle’s hallways. On each side of an unreadable document were half-painted, half-drawn portraits. On the right was of a male hedgehog with vague similarities to Sonic; the left, his mother in native regalia.

‘D-…Dad?’ Sonic’s mind locked up.

But it had to unlock itself, because Sonic had been catapulted into the air. Flipping around, he clenched Caliburn tighter.

 

_“Look at all of the stars high in the sky!_

_“There are so many stars high in the sky!_

_“Do you see all the stars high in the sky?_

_“Can you count all the stars high in the sky?”_

_The Sylvine Luminaria took their chances and attempted to count the night sky’s stars. Their sing-a-long was to keep each other awake long enough to count up to a hundred. Vanille could only count up to twenty, from which Marina took over. Laughing a bit, Nimue noticed she hadn’t progressed much further than thirty. From there, she just brought the younger girls closer to her, and went on to sing out their tower window._

           

“That’s right, lad. _You_ are their miracle son.”

Confused peridot sparkled in the masses of starlight. A wind picked up. Sonic let it cradle him, drift, lower him earthward, and close the gap between his feet and the floor. Another gap—between the hedgehog and echidna’s eyes—formed.

Sonic gave a cool smirk. “Alright. Got it.” A more sense-bringing gleam entered those eyes. ‘It’s starting to come together, now….’

 

_“I’m gonna be your knight in shining armor someday….”_

 

More tiles came soaring towards the hedgehog’s face.

 

_“The best one you ever had.”_

 

Sonic’s reflexes had sharpened so dramatically within that span of time it made Gawain gawk at him. Although the Heir didn’t slice through or bat away the earthenware, his parries were strong and quick. The Sacred Broadsword looked unstoppable, unbreakable. The echidna huffed, smiling. ‘Yeah, lad. You’ve got it in you, too.’

Another breeze between them brought in a reflective silence with it. More questions arose in Sonic’s mind, but he thought to take a breather from the torturously long training session first. Gawain, however, didn’t break a sweat. His training usually lasted for hours—once from morning to evening, according to Doyen Gustavio. The 2nd Viceroy-Knight didn’t fit the quality of a dapper gentleman. He was an opposing force to Lancelot and Percival, and he was too rough-and-tough to fit that bill. He knew when to be dapper, though. His brogue sounded almost Irish, but not quite. It was an intriguing accent; sort of like Marina’s accent, when he thought about it.

Even with his “no sweat-breaking” ability, he learned why Gawain had taken his shirt off shortly into the regimen: Sonic darted an eye back at the echidna, splashing some water onto his face and chest. ‘Feh…walking furnace,’ he spat out in his head. Inwardly envying the Viceroy’s chiseled abdomen.

“Aye…? ‘Rapscallion’?”

Sonic turned an ear in the direction of Gawain’s nostalgic term. He also spotted a bucket of water. Different to the one Gawain poured from. This one was full and even had a ladle. He blinked at it. Then, at the crouching echidna.

“Need a drink?”

Sonic blinked again. “Is that a…milkmaid’s yoke?”

There was a long pole resting along the back of Gawain’s shoulders. From each taper, a pail of water hung from a rope. The one without the ladle was empty, so it hung idly at Gawain’s back. After close inspection, Gawain smirked at him. “I guess you can call it that, yea?”

“Oh. Cool. Hadn’t seen one in real-life before, that’s why I asked.” He took a sheepish gulp.

“Aye. And I’m sure there’s a lot _more_ you’ve not seen…in ‘real-life’ before. Yea, laddie?”

Water spewed from Sonic’s lips. Luckily, Sonic didn’t choke. And Gawain’s eyes were closed. Blank stares were exchanged. But Sonic’s, “Whaddaya mean by _that?_ ” alerted the Viceroy of his suspicions. The older male chuckled a bit, gritting his teeth from the gross wetness. “Mrrgh…I mean the Kingdom of Fanelia at night, lad….”

* * *

 

He liked taking in the sight of the Kingdom’s “Lights On” time.

_“The nightlights will inspire you. The night-people will be surprised by your appearance, too, I’m sure. You are the heir to the Kingdom’s Throne, after all.”_

But Sonic never thought he’d see them from the streets they lit, up close, personal, and at night.

_“Are shops even open at this time of night?”_

_“O’ course, lad. You just gotta know where to look.” His somewhat cool wink made Sonic feel slightly uneasy._

Sweat bolted down the blue hedgehog’s face. ‘This would actually be really cool…if I didn’t dread where I think we’re going.’ His terrified, yet bizarrely blank, expression was ignored by Gawain’s navigating self-talk.

It didn’t seem like they were heading to any specific place, Sonic felt. Maybe it was just for sight-seeing purposes? Maybe, acting like a more proper tour guide this time around, Gawain wanted to answer any questions the knave may have? There were plenty of things to ask about; everything did look vaguely familiar.

Turning a corner, there was a more mature-looking raccoon. He was sweeping the curb, and appeared a bit on the short side—severely disadvantaged against Gawain. His muzzle was streaked, styled into a goatee. Gawain exchanged bows with him.

“ _Ave Noct’a_ , my good Sir!” The older raccoon sounded chipper that evening. “What brings you out here? Nighttime patrol?” He peeked past to see Sonic. “Oh…a green leaf? Showing him around, I bet?”

“Indeed, sir. A win for you.”

“Ah…? Isn’t he the rogue you nabbed sometime back?”

Sonic gulped hard. More sweat bolted down his face.

But Gawain’s coolness passed it off. “More so a misunderstanding, really. Turns out we were wrong. He’s harmless.”—somehow the notation sounded offhanded to Sonic—“This one’s the lost prince: Her Highness’s Arthur Dalian.”

But Sonic pointed to himself in confusion. So did the raccoon, gawping in shock. “You’re kidding…!” Startled blinks were easily recognized on Sonic’s part. “My, he’s grown so big—how did he survive?” The shorter man hobbled over to tug at Sonic’s hand, thumbing it up and down, as if to see if it was real. Then, with a big grin and swishing tail, he patted it. “Good on you, lad, and welcome home!”

“Mind you, Tillman,” Gawain stepped in, arms akimbo. “He ain’t official yet, so don’t go spouting off rumors. Y’hear?”

“Aye-aye, Sir!” A grander bow was for Gawain and Sonic both. “You can count on me! In the meantime, Viceroy, would you and the ‘green leaf’ be interested in a late-night drink?”

 

Further down the street, and a subterranean staircase, a lone sign could be seen alongside a lantern that made it visible. Candle flickers gave the Gaean-script “Tillman’s Bar & Brewery” a magical feel.

Although, Sonic was unsure: Bars most definitely sold alcohol and alcoholic beverages. And Sonic knew he was most definitely nowhere near the age to drink. A nervousness fell over him as he eyed the establishment’s corners. It wasn’t exactly a place for tough guys, but there were some burly individuals present. Buddies of the raucous variety, a passel of rough-looking men were arm-wrestling in one corner. A strongman bear beat his flabbergasted brother-in-literal-arms. A loud cheer rang out of that corner, startling Sonic a bit.

Strangely, Gawain didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he smiled before taking a sip from his lager.

Sonic’s eyes bucked. “Whoa, hold on there, partner!” he couldn’t help flailing inside. “What’re you doing?!”

Gawain halted his sip. The heavy glass met the wood with a soft _clunk_. A quizzical brow lifted at the inwardly panicking hedgehog. His spouting out “You’re not old enough to drink alcohol! You’re gonna get in big trouble, y’know!” made him blink, bringing on a nearly insensitive scowl. “Aye? Who in the world told ya that, lad?”

Sonic’s face deadpanned. Halfway listening and halfway cleaning a shot glass, Tillman’s ear perked up. He peeped an eye at the boy’s face. A stifled smile wrinkled his snout.

“I see you’re not up-to-date with Gaean customs?” the older raccoon gave a gentle snicker. “The permissible age to consume _berruber_ is sixteen years. Lord Gawain here’s never been silly about his drinks. In fact, I’m the one who served him his first drink—here in Fanelia, anyway.”

Sonic was still deadpanning Gawain. He drank the alcohol with such ease.

“No worries, lad, he’s old enough to imbibe. Assuming he won’t do anything stupid after the fact. He’s always wary, knowing when and when not to partake. Someone’s been raised well.” He winked at the echidna.

Somehow, concentration entered the Viceroy’s countenance. He became eerily quiet as he downed his drink. From thoughtful sip to passive gulps, Gawain took in his drink quietly. Sonic kept a careful eye on him, remembering how explosive his anger could get. If Gawain ever went into a drunken tirade, how would he go about it? He was strong already when he was sober. Who knew how many times that strength multiplied when he wasn’t?

“I hear Doyen Gustavio had a hand in it, too.” Sonic blinked back at the bar owner. He’d given a pleasant nod. “The Doyen is renowned throughout this land. A foreigner who believed and practiced the same wisdoms as Fanelian Sovereignty…he was someone King Uther couldn’t overlook. Lord Gawain was in a similar situation, too. Thanks to the Doyen’s kind words, Gawain was promised a placement in the Fanelian Noble Forces, if he continued to work as hard as he always did.”

Some things began to settle into perspective for Sonic. So Gustavio elected Gawain to be a Viceroy-Knight—someday? But how did he know? Gawain’s tenacity was obvious. His physical strength was through the roof. Had he shown demonstrations beforehand? Did he show such a display of power that Gustavio couldn’t say no to it? Questions abounded in Sonic’s head. But the Viceroy was still silently sipping.

‘He’s takin’ it in like he has an iron stomach… _and_ liver!’ Sonic’s eyes bucked, wildly blinking. What condition was his liver in? How could that giant drinking cup not be considered excessive—or illegal, even?

“And look at him, now.” Tillman clapped his hand together. “I’m personally proud of him. Such a rambunctious youth had kept his wondrous strength hidden for so long….”

The echidna took in his final sips, uncharacteristically soft, and let out a goodhearted sigh. A female version of Tillman—albeit younger and fairer-looking—came trotting over to serve another helping of kebobs. A tiny exchange was made between them. One thing Sonic noticed right away was Gawain wasn’t slurring. He should’ve been passed-out drunk by now, he computed. ‘Or, at least, _I_ would be….’

“ _Makhbek_?” the girl asked him next.

Suddenly, unabashed and wolfish, his ears perked up high and eyes beamed at the small platter. Delicious meats and vegetables were grilled to perfection, six to seven pieces skewered at a time. They smelled almost gingery, so Sonic wondered what kind of meat was on them. Not feeling too picky, Sonic picked up a pair with each hand. He nodded shyly to her, who seemed entranced by him.

Just like the squirrel baker was.

He took a sheepish bite and chewed the meat tenderly. Roses blossomed in both pleasantly plump cheeks. “It’s good— _really_ good!” Then, he let out a kindhearted laugh. Scratching the back of his head merely added “cuteness” points to Sonic’s charm.

 

The very late evening drifted into full-fledged night before either Sonic or Gawain knew it. More patrons had made their way in and out of Tillman’s. Happy to be of service, his supposed daughter bobbed back and forth, from between tables to saddle doors, on the floor, off the floor, towards the back. Sonic felt sort of bad that she was the only server. Most of the other workers were brewing since Tillman’s worked as a brewery, as well. Perhaps she was old enough to serve it, but not old enough to make it? Sonic could only guess why that was.

In the meantime, he wasn’t inclined to mingle with the bar-folk. Instead, he watched a small band of lady-players perform. One danced like a gypsy, hips swaying and tail swishing to another girl’s bongo beat. Another shook—what looked like a maraca with beads on the outside, while one more strummed a guitar. All of them sang in light, airy, almost whispery psalms. Obviously, they were singing in the native language and leaving Sonic in a cloud of befuddlement.

            _“Tyül baïth sassah sirrheth, tehm tyol’naïhana sirrh’loth,  
            __ba yhün men’hid tækor’toth, ba yhün mond seïl’bith…”_

What surprised him most was seeing the 2nd Viceroy joining in: He kicked his feet up to meet the dancer’s. He was surprisingly rhythmic and attuned. Almost looking like a natural dancer, Gawain clapped his hands in complimentary time with the drum. He even smiled, and sang along.

            _“Mabina sorrh’ghan ha sïth’tsa, sïth’tsa samukh birrok, birrok tihm-lihmmi heï’lu, ma-yü-ba-sirrh-kah! Lëliudoth…”_

A sense of brotherhood floated about the establishment. Sonic snagged the last piece of meat off his skewer. Much like the community he traipsed through, despite his chains and royal watchers’ eyes. Everyone communed so easily. Rowdiness followed the men in and accompanied them out. The women weren’t complete sleazes, trying to sleep with anyone who had a spare “leg” below their belt. Talks were simple. Flirting was coy. As tempting as the sole waitress was to flirt with, he withheld himself. Gaean customs were completely different from Earth’s, in an almost nostalgic sense. So, he gave up wondering why when Gawain and the music troupe got up and danced out an encore.

Even Tillman and his daughter were clapping in time. Gawain waved Sonic over suddenly. And the hedgehog had no choice but to comply. Still sober yet adventurous, the blue hedgehog tugged the waitress into the shindig. A slow worker’s beat was kept. The raccoon girl was obviously shy, but Sonic’s missteps were making her blush; thus, Sonic’s impromptu dance lesson sparked both their spirits.

 _“…And once you find that niche, you may be surprised at what you’ll find,”_ Gawain’s continued words flowed from the back of Sonic’s memory. It made him grin. ‘Y’know…Gaea’s not so bad. And if things keep going like this, I just might fall in love with it!’

 

 

_I Think I Can See a Bright and Shining Future, Mom…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick References: The song the Luminaria trio sings is essentially "Precious Stars in the Sky" from Kingdom Hearts, with original lyrics.
> 
> The song that sung in Tillman's bar is to "The Ash Grove" from the SatBK OST, but in original/Gaean lyrics. Its translation is pending, but it is an old in-story Gael-Maren folksong.


	14. I Think I’m Getting Used to this…Swordplay Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonic's training is coming to a close. One of his final chances to prove himself worthy of the Throne is to outmatch Percival's swift speed. The lady-Viceroy's challenge dares to be his most difficult one, in terms of speed. And adding a Draconian element arouses more of the Blue Blur's hot-bloodedness. How will he do? Sonic & Escaflowne vs. Percival & Bastet! :Back In-Progress, alongside another WIP: It's go time, Escaflowne! Swift as the wind, let's beat Percival...together!

Event Fourteen

 

The next night began with Sonic following Lord Percival into the hedge-maze, to ensure he didn’t get lost in it. Those winding curves proved to be confusing; he wondered how she knew her way around. ‘Probably through lots of trials…and errors,’ Sonic thought with dread.

 _“We are to rendezvous with Bastet tonight after supper, Heir,”_ he remembered her telling him. _“Please be prompt, for your final trial approaches.”_ She had continued on to tell him, _“Show me the progress you’ve made. I am a master of speed and swiftness. I’m sure Lancelot’s quick jabs and slices proved fearsome, at the least. When the time arrives, I’ll need you to discern your weaknesses against them…then, assume your disadvantage against me.”_

‘It almost sounded like she was threatening me.’ Sonic clenched a fist. ‘But, then again…she’s a tough cookie, so this is gonna be an interesting challenge!’

Once again, Sonic arrived in the Gladiolus Arena. The decrepit coliseum looked creepier at night than during the day. Edifices cracked somewhat deeper, maybe even housing tiny pairs of eyes. Nighttime Fauna were making their moves about. But it didn’t seem to spook Percival at all.

Upon stepping onto the arena floor, Percival halted. So did Sonic, right behind. A question mark popped over his head, his eyes peering from the lady-knight’s left to right shoulder. His quills stood on end when he saw her unsheathing her sword.

Intense focus moved her. Her steps were strong, and her wardrobe began to transform before his very eyes: “Pyracantha, _Ignire_.” Her voice commanded flames to spin around her. Their heat made Sonic pull back. But amazement sparked in his eyes. Her current wardrobe was engulfed by petal-shaped embers, and she was being embraced by a fiery dirt devil. In its midst, Percival pirouetted expertly. As she did this, silver armor coursed over her shoulders, torso, hips, from head to toe. Her Sacred Rapier gleamed fiercely. “Laevatein, Ignite!” The sparks from her gauntlet sliding against the blade seemed to awaken it. The cyclone flourished outward, like a blooming rose.

Then, a bright carmine sigil flashed on her right thigh. Raising her blade from her nose to the sky, she bellowed, “Come—Bastet!”

A banshee’s soul-piercing shriek covered the coliseum. The Fauna punting about fled. Bats took flight, as if to give the Draconian the floor. It sounded somewhat terrifying to Sonic, since he jumped a little. Unsure of its source, Sonic threw his sights around.

“You shouldn’t do that….”

Sonic caught sight of Percival disappearing within a black fog. “H-Hey?!”

“My challenge may be the worst of them, Promising Heir,” she told him in an ominous yet scholarly voice. “You may want Escaflowne’s help. Call on him, and he shall come.” Abruptly, the blackness dispersed. And with it did the 3rd Viceroy.

Before Sonic could rebut her, a gust proved Bastet’s presence. She must’ve been hidden in Bastet’s cloak, Sonic reasoned, since he couldn’t spot her. A tenseness drew his muscles, Caliburn’s blade flashing in the moonlight. Before he could remember which moon, he caught sight of an oily shimmer.

“Gotcha! Let’s do this—Escaflowne!”

The Tempest Dragon came bowling from overhead, let out a zealous cry, and swooped down to pick up Sonic. “Oh yeah! I’m so stoked for this!”

Percival removed some of Bastet’s stealth cloak and smiled back at them tailing her and her dragon-partner closely. “Very good. But it seems Caliburn isn’t fully awake, yet. A costly mistake…!” She aimed her sword to a mountain in the distance. It was the one that appeared to be floating. “To the Floresta Mountains and back: I shall test your speed, swiftness, and endurance within that distance! Defeat in all three bouts, and I will regard your potential as formidable…Now, come after me!”

“You’ve got it! Let’s go, Escaflowne!”

Sonic and his Draconian partner took off like the wind. In deep competition, Percival eluded them. She admitted that Escaflowne was fast, but it didn’t look like Sonic had a good grasp on his reigns. Certainly not accustomed to flying—let alone a dragon—Percival let it slide. And before they knew it, the Floresta Mountains had made themselves into an obstruction. Quick reflexes guided Bastet upward along the mountain face.

“Watch out for orbiting mines!” Percival cried back to him.

Sonic panicked, “There are mines up here?!”

Banking rightward, she added, “Careful, Heir…! Catch me, if you can!”

“Heh! It’s _so_ on!”

A battle cry escaped Escaflowne’s throat. And, as if placing himself on auto-pilot, Escaflowne locked Sonic out of his reigns’ functions.

In response, Sonic tried to jimmy them loose. “What the—It won’t move! Escaflowne, what’re you doing?!”

A sharp caw; a silencing caw. He left Sonic flabbergasted and hanging on for dear life. His four eyes locked on to Bastet’s barrel-rolls and sharp turns. He also took the enormous boulders floating back and forth into account.

“Whoa, hey, don’t you trust me? I thought we were cool, buddies-for-life! What’s up with you?!”

But a sharp dodge silenced the hedgehog again. Wild blinks denoted his irritation, but out the corner of his eye, he saw Bastet. As well as Percival; her sneaky grin alluded to another sudden disappearance. “Huh?!” Throwing his sights around again, he snapped, “Crap, where’d she go?”

The Sacred Broadsword, Caliburn was brought up, then a breath hold. Then, a breath. More breaths. Sonic focused on his breathing for a moment.

Suddenly—“Behind you!”

A sneak attack: Well, Percival was a master of speed and stealth. Sonic didn’t put it past her to do something like that. And solely by miraculous means did he parry her.

She caught his smirk. “I gotcha, now!”

“Is that a fact?”

In the matter of a fractional second— _Bing, bang, shing, cring, clang!_

Caliburn and Laevatein collided swiftly, repetitively, and furiously. The 3rd Viceroy was fighting with a fraction of all her might, surely. It was only a practice session. But one thing Sonic noticed a trait all three Viceroy-Knights shared was gravity: Lords Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival took his training seriously. It was to critique his potential. It was to ensure their Kingdom’s safety and prosperity. They wanted someone who could hold out and hold strong to his words and beliefs. Inadequacy was unacceptable, and cowardice was totally out of the question. Sonic had never been a coward; maybe that notion alone is what kept him going?

The dragons danced into ascension. _Shing, cring, crash, clang!_

He didn’t like giving up. He didn’t want to succumb to failure unless there was nothing left he could do. And, even then, he wasn’t going to give up. In retrospect, his options would’ve been completely exhausted back when those witches attacked, if not for them.

_Cring—clong—bang!_

Gaea was a completely new world to him. So much like Earth and so unlike it, at the same time. The new world held countless mysteries. New faces, new places—to meet and explore. Hand-in-hand came new dangers, too.

One more strike: Percival aimed for a sword-tipped jab, while Sonic swung downward to knock it off-target.

Sonic had faith in the knowledge he was steadily gaining, and in the wisdom he would further ascertain. He had faith in the Viceroy-Knights, in the Dragons—entities he’d just met, but somehow felt he’d known forever.

‘If they knew my parents and grandmother, and revered them so highly…’ Caliburn’s block was successful. ‘Then these _have_ to be some pretty good people.’

The Dragons’ dance had concluded. Soon into the break, Percival’s head lightened. Clutching it, she growled, ‘Oh no, we’ve ascended too…!’

However, before her thought could finish her hold on the reigns slackened. Dramatically: she was falling.

“Percival!”

Bastet’s fearful screech came as her claw missed her master’s wrist by a hair.

“Escaflowne, dive!” Sonic spat. His command was heeded within a heartbeat. Escaflowne’s wings tucked inward, Sonic threw himself forward to streamline their descent. Percival made no movements; Sonic’s heart raced to catch her in time. Bastet wailed as she dove after them.

“I got her…I got her!”

Disengaging his footholds, Sonic leapt out and snatched Percival into his arms. Escaflowne let out a startle squawk. “I got her! Quick!”

But then, Bastet swooped in and caught both of them. Escaflowne’s wing happened to intersect hers. A strange “submersion” rushed all over Sonic’s body as he held onto Percival for dear life. He was chanting, “I gotcha, I gotcha,” bravely to himself before feeling it all around him. Soon enough, he found himself on Bastet’s saddle. The Nocturne Dragon’s breathy tweets made it into his ears. Shakily, he answered, “Yeah, we’re okay. Must’ve gone up too high, I guess…?” He chuckled. It came out just like his answer. “The altitude can be quite a bother to us ‘Earthborn,’ since the air thins out the higher you go. It must not bother you guys so much, huh?” Out came another shaky chuckle.

Bastet still made a worried face, half circles gleaming in a worried tint of amber. Escaflowne nudged her face; it was his turn to give a nervous twitter.

“Thanks, you two. The thin oxygen must’ve gotten to her. No worries, she just passed out. She’ll be okay.” Despite its trembles, Sonic’s hand managed to pet Bastet’s head in a soothing manner. A relieved warble left her throat. He smiled at her.

“C’mon, let’s head back. I’m sure to get a passing grade for this one.”

Escaflowne snorted, derisive towards Sonic’s passivity. “Hey, I saved her, didn’t I?” Another snort. This one was sharper than the last. “Okay, okay… _we_ saved her. I didn’t think you cared about grades like _that,_ Escaflowne. Heh-heh, overachiever…!” He snapped his jaws in Sonic’s direction, before moving into a climb.

The Dragons’ wing-beats sounded soothing to the blue hedgehog, strangely. A wave of heroism and accomplishment washed over him. It led to his relieved sigh. The source of Caliburn’s gleam came into full view. His eyes widened in amazement.

“Is that…Earth?” Shock left him at that.

It was big, beautiful, and up really close. Close enough to see atmospheric movements. Enough to see the ocean’s glittering surface. If Sonic focused hard enough, he could probably find the city he’d lived in prior to Fanelia. Peridot eyes beamed in wonderment. “Oh…wow…!”

The lady-Knight’s ear swiveled in the direction of Sonic’s voice. Her eyes peeped at Sonic. His entranced eyes didn’t noticed her. They were so broad, so bedazzled, they reminded her of hers as a kitten. Brave citrines beheld the Knights of Caeli’s emblem. ‘I pray for your aspirations to be realized, Promising Heir.’ She closed her eyes softly. ‘May you not despair in your melancholy, but…?’

* * *

 

_‘…Look forward to a better opportunity at a better quality of life. For that, I solemnly pray.’_

Sonic’s worry chittered terribly at the back of his mind. His eyes darted left, right, left, right, and left again. The fountain behind him was like “base” in a game of Tag. The gushes pooled elegantly. More likenesses defined its being: Another mysterious male hedgehog, with braids and a downcast gaze, holding up two double-headed serpents. He sat like a tribe chieftain. He looked regal in every sense of the word. Overall, he was stunningly beautiful; easily mistaken for a maiden, if Sonic said so himself. Something about the likeness made his spines quiver. Was it each snake’s two heads? Or the fact that he was holding them?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t helping him at all.

“You are growing tardier the longer you sit there, Knave.”

Sonic jumped from his perch, flailing about like a panicked fish. Throwing himself into a semi-defensive stance, he noticed Lancelot’s face in the gush’s band. Sonic blinked a little. He seemed to be looking downward. Curious, Sonic couldn’t help asking himself why. He threw the question aside, so he could blurt out, “Well, how the heck was I gonna make it on time, anyway? I don’t know where ‘Snapdragon Lake’ is from here! This giant maze is by far the worst part of this garden retreat, ya know! You know the way there. _You_ have to guide me!”

“I can only leave you with step-by-step instructions. I cannot follow you here.”

“But you’re already there! Can’t you just come and get me—please?”

The 1st Viceroy’s eyes narrowed. “ _You_ are meeting _me_ , Knave. _I_ summoned _you_ here. Don’t try to compromise your lack of navigation with rudeness.”

“My sense of navigation is lacking because of this stupid maze! Who’s the idiot who decided to put this deathtrap here, anyway?!”

“…Your great-great-grandmother, Mother Helene Kyrie II, you twit.”

All of a sudden, Sonic’s eyes became watery pools. Embarrassment and terror struck his heart; Lancelot seemed to be figuring out how to tear his face off with the fountain water. Stuttering gasps escaped in staccato. “Ahh…Umm…Err…I’m sorry. Whoops.”

It appeared the Knight had defeated the Knave with a mere correction, as well as a heart-stopping glare.

 

“…Okay. If I’m going the right way, then there should be a left I’ll have to take soon.”

Finding himself a little less intimidated, Sonic moved through the maze with caution. He didn’t want to get lost, now; Lancelot was already irked by his tardiness. The Viceroy’s instructions were step-by-step, down to the number of strides it took to reach each bend, corner, and curve. As turned around as Sonic felt himself becoming, he trusted Lancelot’s word. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s been through this maze thousands of time, by now.’ The Blue Blur huffed a sigh. A comical drop of sweat made its way down his jawline.

Ivy hedges ran everywhere. Sonic could tell his internal compass had been thrown way off. “Just around this corner, right?” He found himself staggering soon into it: A staircase had suddenly appeared. It was short, and it led him to a winding bridge. He blinked at the craftsmanship. Stunningly intricate, like every hand-sculpted detail took hours. The bridge seemed to curve too, toward a large stone building. Sonic suddenly recalled the ruins at the lake Caliburn stood over. “The architecture’s…the same?” he murmured over more blinking.

Except this building was completely intact. Of course aged by time and weather, the gazebo was gigantic. Big flowerpots stood in the bay windows while small planters cradled overhanging vines. Mostly partially shaded varieties, Sonic took the liberty to stroll inside the establishment.

Magnificent tile inlays came in whimsical designs. Sonic wasn’t too sure of the colors, since it was so dark. But the Earth’s light was like heavily magnified moonlight, so Sonic could distinguish the lighter colors. Pastels like coral, baby-blue, and jade could be seen swirling in the floor. Natural colors? Darker hues were assumed to be black, and they formed a massive circle. Sonic also noticed arrows; they pointed in perpendicular directions. “Oh, a compass! Huh, that’s actually kinda cool.” Glossy Gaean script was inlaid next to each one.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed two more after them.

“Wait a minute. This isn’t a compass…?” A swirling metal blade rose from the ring’s center. “This…is a sundial!” Careful foot-taps brought the hedgehog around the tool. It was probably one of the biggest sundials he’d ever seen. His grandmother had a grand old time telling him about how useful but painfully mute they were. _“They couldn’t wake you up in the morning even if they tried!”_ he remembered her laughing. It made him laugh to himself, too. He looked up through the roofless cupola. The stars were so bright. A different pair of moons had shown themselves: One white and the others green and red. It seemed that Earth and Gaea shared moons. How many more could there be, he wondered. A misty nebula roamed in a southernmost corner of the sky. Constellations were something that couldn’t be counted; Sonic never bother learning the numbers, but the names intrigued him. Orion, Cassiopeia, the Pleiades and Zodiac Signs. Ursa Minor and Major. There were others on the other sides of the world, Sonic learned. Stars—everywhere, his boyhood mind couldn’t fathom it.

But now, to teenage Sonic, infinity seemed very much visible. All it made him say was, “Wow…!”

Suddenly, a brain gear clacked. “Wait a minute—Lancelot wanted me to meet him at Snapdragon Lake? Well, if this is the place…then where the heck is the lake?”

Bafflement marked the blue hedgehog’s features. He scratched his head, muttering, “I don’t see any lake….” He looked to the left. Then right. Then behind him. He had no choice but to retrace his steps. “Maybe I missed something…?” For the sake of double-checking, he did so backwards. “Is it somewhere down—? Oh.”

Remarkably, the massive gazebo stood on sets of pillars. Fanciful pillars rose from a somewhat large body of water. “There it is,” Sonic presumed it to be. “Huh?”

Sonic spotted ripples. Was something in the water?

 

Upon making his way to it, Sonic discovered a hidden route in the hedges. In one corner was a brightly colored flower. ‘An actual snapdragon?’ Sonic made a face, piecing his hunch together with what he saw next.

Snapdragons: They were everywhere. Sonic had reached the tall case’s landing to see everything in full view: Other kinds were there to compliment them, as well. But, akin to a flower arranger’s favoritism, the lakeside was encircled by snapdragons. Tiny nocturnal life clambered over leaves and stems. The lake smelled fresh, despite its stagnant position.

Or, it was mostly stagnant. Finally, a moving shadow appeared.

The Earth’s shine brought the lakeside into light. And Sonic gawked in amazement: Arysariel lied on the lake’s rightmost bank. He appeared to be sleeping. Just beyond his view, his master skated. Curving around columns, the 1st Viceroy skimmed the lake’s top. In his wake were splashes, tiny waves that lulled to ripples. A most elegant and impossible feat to Sonic; only to be trumped by what his eyes perceived.

‘No way…! He’s skating _on_ the water!’ he couldn’t help thinking.

Lancelot looked like a water nymph. An ethereal glow escaped from the lake’s depths. Looking closer, Sonic noticed Lancelot twirling a ribbon of water around him. His movements were so graceful. Bowing about his body were long dark-blue robes; streaming in his wake was an icy-blue sash, and its silver ring anchoring the three ends together gleamed. His sleeves also rippled, much akin to the stylized angels he’d see in _manga_ and _anime_. The Viceroy skated barefooted, for the most part. Strappy leggings bound his ankles and laced up his calves. Intense focus marked the Viceroy’s features.

Sonic was dumbstruck by the black hedgehog’s magic control. It seemed out of that world—and, somehow, out of his reach. How long did it take to master? How much energy did it take? Could he sleep at night, or did it take up his nights sometimes? Would Sonic ever reach that level? If he did, what would it be like? What level would he reach—what forms of wind would he control? The strongest, perhaps—the fastest, maybe? Or even, all of them? The possibilities rained on him. Excitement bubbled in Sonic’s gut. He couldn’t wait to master his Ensign.

Lancelot made it look so easy. So elegant. And beautiful.

Something else made the water quiver. Where had Arysariel gone off to so fast?

“You’re late, Knave.”

The Sacred Saber, Arondight had never left Lancelot’s side. It looked out of place on his hip, amidst all the flowing gowns. Gloveless fingers ran through the underside of a head-quill. He was walking on water. Energy centered at the ball of each foot, Lancelot found balance and strode towards the shore. He came from under the cupola, into the Earthshine. At a silent beckon, Arysariel slithered out of the lake and greeted his master’s palm with his snout.

Sonic gawked. The Mist Dragon brandished his four wings somewhat protectively. He let out a questioning hiss, to which Lancelot petted his snout. “It’s fine. The Mystic Moon’s shine is much brighter, now.” Sonic saw something sparkle on the other hedgehog’s head: A circlet—of shiny blue gems and silver? His slightly open chest revealed that notable bolo. In this case, though, it was proven to be a necklace. Decorated with a single disk, it only featured a full moon. “Perhaps our training will be better in this light…you think?”

A more complacent hiss escaped through the Draconian’s teeth. To it, Lancelot smirked. Needing a moment with Sonic, he silently sent back Arysariel, who slithered back into Snapdragon Lake.

“Now then.” Moonlit rubies made contact with peridot.

Sonic found himself wondering how Lancelot managed to braid his fur. Two cords framed his face but didn’t quite touch his shoulders, and were stopped by weighted sapphire beads. Ruby secondary beads sat atop them. At each temple was a triquetra rosette. Coursing in between was another long braid that rested underneath the circlet.

Dumbfounded, Sonic blinked wildly.

“Shall we begin?”

And, to top it off, Sonic wasn’t sure why, but he could feel his heart beating a tad-bit too fast.

 

 

_What I’m not used to…is this Feeling?!_


	15. One more thing...then, it's Coronation Time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That momentous day has finally arrived: Sonic is granted the title of Fanelia's King! Percival, Gawain, and Lancelot welcome him into their Knightly ranks, while Gustavio passes down the reins. Sonic pledges his life to the title, and soon realizes that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. As well as his greatest and most perilous challenge yet. Wit, body, heart, and soul will be pushed to the edge - but Sonic's revved up and ready to face his fate! :Back I/P, working alongside another WIP: Just watch me, Mom, G-ma! I'll become the greatest knight in literally shining armor you - and all of Gaea - have ever seen!

Event Fifteen

 

Mini-messengers made their quest out to the neighboring city-states. Soaring high above the verdant expanses, messenger-pigeons were escorted by cells of guard-hawks. A smart idea on the 1st Viceroy’s part; it was to ensure safe delivery to and from destinations. Namely over the dissident tribes in Egzardia, home of the Ruffian Foresters. In a way neutral, tribes were scattered amongst the denser forests. Rough-and-tough residents thrived on their own, but most of them were renowned thieves. Their campsites housed all ages of forest dwellers. A mischievous pack of Mongoose striplings hesitated a sling’s shot upon seeing the hawks’ Fanelian badges.

The morning came bright and early to Sonic the Hedgehog, once again. With all that vigor, it couldn’t make him into a grump even if it wanted to. That morning, in fact, had brought up his mouth’s corners.

“Today’s the day!”

Dressed for an outing, Sonic entered the Rotunda to meet up with his viceregal judges. Upon arrival, the trio bowed gracefully. “ _Ave Luce,_ Promised King,” came their harmonized greeting.

Wait. “Promised King?” Sonic had to repeat, making sure he heard them right.

But none of them said anything in return. The most Sonic could catch was Percival’s hiding grin. He raised a brow and wordlessly followed.

 

* * *

_A letter to Mercrusia had arrived a few hours later. There, awaiting in a decorated throne room, was a heavily furred feline. Atop her head was a classic queen’s coronet, and she sat arrayed in hunter-green satins and multicolored jewels. A bold ring glittered at her opening the scroll. Felid sapphires skimmed over the writing._

_“According to our esteemed friend, Alfred Rohmann…”—her ears stood and her whiskers flinched—“a new King has been named for the Kingdom of Fanelia!” Her elated shout startled the guardsmen at ease. She couldn’t contain her excitement, for she bounced out of her seat and hopped about like a giddy schoolgirl. “Oh, wonderful! Our Eldest Sister-state has returned to her former glory—and, finally, with a newly instated heir! Oh, what joyful news—_ Larsah _!_ Larsah _!”_

* * *

_Another one managed to arrive in Asturia. It left the pigeon carrier so it could be delivered to the Asturian king. Silken tufts framed the chinchilla’s strong, and somewhat mature, face. A soft twirl was stopped by the same message received by the Queen of Mercrusia. This one was in Doyen Gustavio’s hand, no less._

_His eyes widened. “There is…an heir to Fanelia’s throne?” His voice was surprisingly soft, despite the air of disbelief floating about him._  

* * *

 

Sonic and the Viceroy trio had arrived. Gawain swung the Draconian Aerie’s Hospice doors open. Percival and Lancelot led the way inside; much to Sonic’s amazement, everyone he’d met was present: Over that course of time, Sonic learned a bit more about not only Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival, but also about their colleagues, mentors and apprentices alike. Nimue led her teammates, Galahad and Lamorak, Alfred, Miles, and Percival into a welcoming applause. Although, the Doyen and former two Viceroys held their peace.

Stricken with embarrassed surprise, Sonic couldn’t help scratching the back of his head. “Aw c’mon, guys…you’re making me blush!”

“But we knew you could do it!” The fox boy, Miles, giggled.

“Good job!” Vanille couldn’t help agreeing.

“Yea…” Marina averted her bashful gaze.

Gustavio cleared his throat. The small applause simpered, and a path was parted for Sonic to cross through. At everyone’s backs were the Draconian Aerie. Their steely gazes kept track of Sonic’s switch to a more assertive gait. Arysariel silently caught on to Sonic’s nervous gulp. Valborga took on an upright position as he peered at Sonic approaching the Doyen. Soft twitters made by Bastet were meant to cheer Sonic on.

Gustavio turned to see Lord Percival presenting herself. An acknowledgement between them was made. “Milord, 3rd Viceroy-Knight Percival Ladriènne of this mighty Kingdom, what say you about this one?” the albatross asked a bit candidly.

A half-curtsy was returned before turning to face Sonic. Her ambers beheld a frankness that sounded like nostalgia. “This one, he is the one we’ve prayed for to return. Memories boggled by guilt and stubbornness, it seemed we’d lost ourselves in our desperation. In turn, ultimately, we’d forgotten what we were truly looking for. Finding this mere ‘rapscallion’ of a boy was most certainly a happenchance encounter. And thanks to the Tempest Dragon, Escaflowne we were able to honor her late Majesty’s wish.” A deeper curtsy brought up the hems of her banded overskirt. “You have demonstrated a bravery, kindness, and vigor most akin to your grandmother, Sir Sonic. A fine Matriarch in her own right, Mother Helene Kyrie III is smiling upon this day, I’m sure.”

Sonic’s grandmother appeared in a more recent memory. Despite her elderly tendencies, her youthful enthusiasm always had her moving and bopping to life’s rhythms. The proof was in her shimmery pompoms. He could hear her cheers, even now. A reminiscent gleam made Sonic’s eyes water. ‘Yeah…I’m sure she is, too.’

“If you’d please repeat after me, I will lead you in the Fanelian Monarchy’s Oath of Sworn Duty.”

The lady-Knight pulled out a book and placed it into her palm. It looked thick and heavy—almost mimicking the oaths taken in courtrooms in choreography and the ones in weddings in sound. An abiding faith went into the words Sonic repeated. After pressing a hand over his heart, a certain seriousness entered his countenance.

“I solemnly swear—upon this Holy Book—that I will lead my people in honor, dignity, and humility. I will rise to the sun’s promising light and warmth, in efforts to better the lives of all; I will pass through the night knowing all is well when the day’s duties are done, like the moons’ watchful glides and vigilance. I am a bearer of the Magistralis Ensign, sacred power only to the Ispano line of Sovereignty and Paradisal blessing from the Mother Sunbird herself. And with its command, I will rule embraced by the arms of justice. With its power, I will lead my armies on the path of righteousness. With this goodwill, I will love all and I will protect all.” Sonic mirrored Percival’s salute to the chest. “Under the aegis of King Arthur Dalian of the Kingdom of Fanelia, son of Uther Pendragon and Elena Aura IV, I herein pledge my life to the sanctity of my Kingdom and its people.”

 

* * *

_“Father?”_

_Three female chinchillas glided into the throne room of the Asturian King. The tallest, and oldest, girl was the one who’d spoken. At her side were a teenage and childlike versions of herself; they must’ve had a magnificent mother—for her likeness to replicate in all three of them._

_The oldest girl blinked. A smile budded at her lips’ corners. “Good news, Father?” she asked, unconsciously daring him to say yes._

_To which he did. “Yes, my dear Marceline…in regards to Fanelia, our Eldest Sister-state.”_

_Her younger sisters, one perhaps 15 or 16 years old and the other no more than seven or eight, cuddled each other. But she remained strong and tall._

_The king sat for a moment to marvel them. “Marceline…”—the eldest daughter’s smile grew—“Moira…”—the teenaged girl blinked in confusion—“and Mariette…”—the littlest girl hugged her sister closer, cheeks puffed in anticipation. He heaved a grateful sigh. “There is a new head-of-state in Fanelia, now. After all these decades…their Highnesses’ miracle son has finally resurfaced.”_

_The littlest daughter reached out a little. “Papa?” She’d seen him dab a tear away with a handkerchief._

_“It’s been far too long, dear Uther and Elena.”_

* * *

_Chatter served as a befitting background for the chameleon to write his report to. It was good white noise, not too distracting for him to fit pieces of evidence together. Lately, a string of thefts had been occurring in the dead of night. Security in Palas, the Asturian capital, was raised to a moderate level, seeing that no one had been caught or named a suspect._

_And yet, something about that black-coated_ senbon _made his scales crawl a bit._

* * *

 

“What say you, 2nd Viceroy-Knight Gawain McAüschlun?”

Gawain gave a curt bow to Gustavio and approached Sonic. The two met, nearly eye-to-eye, in solemnity. But soon into the stare-down, Gawain relaxed. “Aye…this one, Doyen…” He was shaking his head. “He’s a firecracker. A bit of a…hardhead. Kinda slow in some things, but quick to readjust. Knows when not to quit. Can self-reflect, and return our gestures in kind. He’s fun. I like him.” He gave Sonic a couple sharp pats. “He’s got a long way to go, though. But I think he can do it. He’s been a good mirror for me, so far….” He winked at him coolly. “Let’s give him a chance, our trust. We already have his, so it’s only fair, right?” he asked, turning to the albatross. He heard a low hum rolled under his huff.

A quiet gladness brought a smile out of Percival. She watched Gawain kneel in presenting the Sacred Broadsword to Sonic. The hedgehog took it from the cloth and into his hands. Ever so familiar, he was trying to hide his eagerness.

Back to Sonic, “You remember your Awakening, don’t you, lad?”

“Huh?—Oh, yeah.”

“Well then, let’s see it.” Gawain took a few steps back. “You’re just waking up your power, mind you. Nothin’ fancy, y’hear?”

“Got it.”

In that moment, Sonic took a moment to observe his surroundings: The Aerie’s hangar was the same as it’d always been. Hay was stacked as an on-hand snack for Valborga, in his quadrant of the room. Earthbound by choice, the Earth Dragon’s “roost” was always ground-level and near the door—for convenience and ventilation. From there, Bastet’s middle roost was neither too far from the floor nor too close to it. Something about the indistinct position made the Nocturne Dragon feel comfortable. Percival must’ve spoiled her rotten, since big pillows and a silver bowl were set inside her nest. Strangely, Sonic noticed the placement of both her and Arysariel’s nest. Almost at the same level, Arysariel’s nest didn’t have much. Not even a single cushion, unless one counted the Persian rug. One thing the Mist Dragon definitely had was a blanket. It made Sonic wonder why it was so small. In fact, Escaflowne had one set aside, too. But it was much bigger—enough to cover himself. Somehow peeved by the notion, a small vein pulsed at Sonic’s jaw.

It made the rising glimmer in Caliburn’s blade quiver a bit.

‘Okay. Time to focus, Sonic.’ His gauntlet flashed a sunlit glint. Breaths inward were deep and wholesome, like the outward ones. A few brought equilibrium to Sonic’s brain; a few more balanced his mind and attention. The Luminaria Pages Nimue and Vanille gawked in fascination. Hands clasped and mouths slightly agape, both girls quietly cheered Sonic on; Marina chose not to make it a big deal as she looked on. Miles was also impressed by Sonic’s well-honed Magic control. The sword sparkled so brightly the boy had no choice but to take pride in it.

The Knighthood apprentices, Galahad and Lamorak, watched the wind magic quietly building up.

Sonic put Caliburn’s blade into a gentle clasp. “Magistralis… _Incido_.” Then, at a quick grind, Caliburn’s blade gave off a greenish light. Sonic incited: “Caliburn, Slash!” More swift maneuvers guided the blade into an expert twirl and its point in an aimless striking pose. The aura stayed. Its radiance didn’t fluctuate too much.

Doyen Gustavio huffed with pride, while Headmaster Alfred held his hands together in silent approval.

“Well done, lad.” Gawain gave a sharp salute and bowed grandly.

But Sonic merely blinked at the uncharacteristic gesture. For the sake of formality, he guessed, before smiling a tad shyly.

“Very good, Young Lord.”

As Gawain stepped back, Gustavio and Lancelot stepped forth. No eye contact between Sonic and the 1st Viceroy was made, for some reason. The compliment made Sonic blink a little at him, though.

“Now that I see you have mastered both your Ensign and Weapon,” Gustavio went on after a moment, “there is one thing left to do. Finalize this proof, in which we whom gathered here have all witnessed. One more element to this promise is left to be fulfilled….”

As he was speaking, Lancelot gave Sonic an almost apologetic gentleman’s bend. To which Sonic smiled off. Carefully, Sonic undid each shirt button. Once undone, Sonic removed it and gave it to Lancelot, who folded it—all just-as-carefully, and stepped back. A breeze whisked in, making the gaze between him and Escaflowne all the more intense. Each of the dragon’s eyes locked onto Sonic’s.

Their moment would be the last element: “Take Moloch’s Oath with Escaflowne, Young Lord. Then, your tithes to the Kingdom shall set themselves into motion.”

Gustavio’s tone resounded in both Escaflowne and Sonic’s understanding. The deciding moment lightened a bit, suddenly. “Looks like you’ll need a teaspoon’s worth of blood from me…Hope I don’t pass out or something.” He reached up and stroked the underside of the dragon’s jaw. Tickled a bit, the dragon let out an approving chirp. But then, he found the hedgehog’s forehead bumping against his. A questioning chirp came out.

Tears? Sonic was crying. And he was hiding it by quirking his smile or stifling a chuckle with his nose. Escaflowne’s head tilted a bit. “No worries, I’m just joshin’ with ya.” Watery eyes smiled at him. “Kinda nervous, still. It’s not too painful, is it? Heh, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Since, y’know, I totally trust you, after all.” He chuckled.

Before he could wipe away his stray tears, a couple moist licks took them away. Sonic raised his eyes to the Dragon in light surprise, and a brave trill cheered him up. The other Draconian Aerie members and their masters’ hearts were warmed a bit. Bastet nuzzled Percival’s nape, her master patting her chest in sureness. Gawain nodded after Valborga’s confident huff. Both Lancelot and Arysariel dipped their heads, with the serpentine dragon’s tongue flickering to reaffirm Sonic.

 _“She is proud of me, isn’t she?”_ Sonic took their responses into account, and nodded confidently. Fully facing them now, he loosened up his neck, shoulders, knees and ankles, arms and wrists. He pumped both fists and allowed confidence to spread into his smirk. “Alright! Let’s do this!” His cool wink was meant for everyone. Straightening back up, he drew in a good breath and held it.

Marina threw her hands over Vanille’s eyes. “It’s gonna look painful, Vanille, so—!” But before she could finish, Nimue had slapped her hands over her eyes. “Hey! What’re you cov’rin’ _my_ eyes for?!”

“There might be blood, Marina, so it’s for your good.” Somehow, the pink hedgehog’s answer seemed flat but big-sisterly at the same time.

It was a signal for the Tempest Dragon to approach. Glancing at his master’s profile, he paused. A deep focus had shut the blue hedgehog’s eyes; he was waiting. So Escaflowne proceeded to bare his fore-fangs, and snapped them down on Sonic’s right shoulder. Sonic made a reflexive grimace, biting down an automatic yelp. The bite came into Sonic’s shoulder along the frontal plane, so Sonic was sure he’d find two pairs of puncture holes the next morning. About as soon as the eight-point sting came, it left. Sonic let go of his breath as slowly as he could, so he didn’t focus on the pain too much.

He saw Escaflowne giving him a worried look. “No worries, buddy. I’m okay…think I’m gonna sit, though.” After doing so, he chuckled a little. “Ahh…it hurt more than I thought it would? I handled it pretty well, don’tcha think?” Escaflowne’s relieved chitter made Sonic’s smile grow.

Miles and Nimue made their way over to tend to his shoulder. Nimue’s trusty red-bird bag coughed out a first-aid kit, and she handed it to Miles. The fox boy rolled it open, grabbed the gauze, and proceeded to ravel it around the bitten area. Nimue insisted holding Sonic’s arm in a position that allowed proper recovery. He gave her an awkward smirk in return.

 

* * *

_The streets of Asturia and Mercrusia bustled. Vivacious celebrations sparked from different parts of the sister-cities. In Palas, not too far off from jubilated citizens, a vivid-green crocodile and a buzzing honeybee were finishing some errands. Grocery baskets were hauled by the two of them—more the bee than the crocodile, however._

_“What’s that, you say? The Fanelian Prince has returned?!”_

_Nearly choking on a candy piece, the crocodile was caught off-guard by the comment._

_But the kid-bee was enamored by the news, for some odd reason. So much that he dropped the groceries he had in each hand._  

* * *

 

Percival brought in a gleaming silver pitcher and headed towards Bastet. Upon seeing her reenter the Hospice, the semi-physical Draconian tapped her “nose” against the matching bowl. “Alright, alright, here you are.” Happy tweets escaped as water ran from the pitcher’s mouth into the bowl. Bastet’s eyes turned into hearts, girlishly nuzzling her master before sipping the water down. “Good girl…are you happy about the new King?”

Bastet ruffled her neck “feathers” to show excitement.

To that, Percival giggled. “My, my…I suppose I am, too.”

She took a glance over her shoulder to see Lancelot prepping Arysariel for flight. Beyond him, Gawain brought bales of hay up to Valborga’s snout. As the Earth Dragon ate, Gawain made a few jaw-shattering punches to his back. Then, Gawain hopped down and gave him a couple good pats. “A’right, should be all good, now.”

Valborga let out a chagrined groan. Getting into a squat, Gawain tried to encourage him. “I know you don’t like flying, but it’s to celebrate the new King’s ascension. Don’t ya want to belt out a good solo for him in front of _everyone?_ ” Something about that idea made Valborga grunt, but in a more thoughtful way. As if to ponder about the possibilities.

The Earth Dragon wasn’t much of a singer, but there was a wordless jealousy he didn’t express toward his Aerie comrades. Bastet was said to be the best, but Escaflowne was the only one who argued against it. If there were ever a “Draconian Singing Contest,” surely there’d be a tough call between her and him. On the other hand, it was very rare to hear Arysariel sing. Whenever it was his turn for morning or evening clarion, he amicably did so and sang very well. Outside of that, however, singing wasn’t a natural habit the Mist Dragon got into. All of Gaea’s Draconians had a knack for singing. Most of them, especially in Moloch’s line of progeny, were very good vocalists. No Earthborn voice or instrument could rival a Dragonsong.

Well, except one.

From what Percival taught to Sonic, there once lived a bard from ancient times named Araxes. He tended to roam, and his voice could reach a city-state’s walls, it was so lovely. Almost considered a “Dragonborn,” his songs could lull Moloch’s tension and sometimes even put him to sleep. It was also fabled that Myriada gave birth to a hymn he sang for ten days—the length of time it took her to bring forth all her offspring. In that time, it was winter so the cold made it easier for his voice to echo; at the same time, it was too cold for him to bear. In spite of it he sang, determined to welcome each offspring into the new world in his lovely voice. Eventually, his voice was gone and he later succumbed to the cold, much to Myriada’s regret. Now, all the world’s kingdoms immortalized Araxes’ story in missionaries, music festivals, and even religious foundations—especially in Freid. The Dukedom of Freid honored the bard as Gaea’s first “Dragonborn,” complete with a statue and memorial. Although a Freid native, Araxes had become so renowned that the Fanelian Monarchy gave the Aerie’s singing ability the name “Araxes’ Charm.”

The 3rd Viceroy found herself amazed by the story all over again. She saw that Valborga was ready to fly, after much coaching from his master. Arysariel waited patiently for Lancelot’s cue. Bastet’s sweet coo brought her out of her reveries.

The lady-knight nodded. “Hmm. Alright then, let’s go.”

 

Inside the Cathedra, Consul-Generals Alfred and Gustavio awaited. A guardsmen pair awaited outside of it, guarding the doors. Miles, the Consul-Chancellor, awaited as well. All three were properly dignified, each donning a Fanelian Kingdom crest somewhere on their person. The taller Generals held their hands in gentlemanly clasps at their backs. Miles did the same after tilting his goggles up on his forehead, and couldn’t stop a big smile from upturning his lips.

 

Back in the Rotunda, in Sonic’s Household Suite, golden glitters had attracted a flock of songbirds. Miniature sunlit sparkles caused the air to brighten. The avian choir chirruped to the movements inside. Galahad and Lamorak were helping put together an outfit for Sonic to change into while he ate breakfast. Sonic took a sheepish scoop of the _laït’sah_ Marina offered him. Once again, it came in a delicately tiny bowl. It tasted like chocolate pudding with whipped cream, strangely. But it was really good, nonetheless.

Galahad pulled his attention for a moment. “Sir…is this suit to your liking?”

Sonic had bits of toast crowding around his lips when meeting eyes with him. In a moment of creativity, Sonic had smeared the pudding on top of the toast. The marriage of chocolate, fluffy cream, and extremely light butter was tasty, indeed. Reflexively, at their aghast looks, Sonic brought a napkin to his mouth. “Um…I think it looks good. Just gimme one second, I’ll finish up here.”

Galahad made sure not to agitate Sonic’s healing shoulder too badly. Minding the blue hedgehog’s motions, he and Lamorak worked together to get Sonic dressed. Tenderness shot into Sonic’s shoulder blade when he had to put on the crisp-white button-down; at least the shoulder seams weren’t tight. It was a fairly billowy shirt compared to the rest of him. Sonic insisted his shoes to stay, which meant Lamorak had to rethink the tunic. Much to an easement, Galahad brought out a brilliant gold bolero. Over it came a gold-stitched tabard bearing a dragon. Under it all came russet shorts. To finish the ensemble, Galahad buckled a gilded belt. Draping from it was the Sacred Caliburn, once again.

“Awesome! Thanks, guys, I think I’m all set!” Sonic checked himself out in the full mirror. “Looks and fits great! Let’s go meet up with Gustavio and the others…ready?” He showed them a cool wink-and-thumbs-up combo.

 

Sonic felt some memories returning. The vast corridor was antagonizing upon arrival—in chains and viceregal custody. The guards lining it looks stately, strict and loyal, opposite to when they merely reinforced his capture. Galahad and Lamorak also held a similar, yet uncharacteristic, aura. Lamorak was not Jet, Sonic made himself remember, so it was strange not to see him holding a scowl or other signs of jealousy. Oftentimes, Jet the Hawk was extremely arrogant and puffed his chest-feathers more than he should have. He hated to lose—especially to someone he felt didn’t measure up to him in skill. Parading around, saying how great he was in archery had nothing to do with Sonic; Silver was usually at the bad end of that stick. Both were sophomores to Sonic’s Junior, so their spats were nothing but annoying to him.

Poor Silver, though, was a literal mirror when it came to Jet’s hubris. Argumentative enough to disrupt classes, Sonic would shake his head when spotting their silhouettes in the Dean’s office. Silver may’ve looked like a pushover, but he had a strong sense of justice—mostly when it came to subjects he felt passion towards. Counters blasted from him, sometimes with heat, and made himself and Jet look like bitter exes. Silver was in archery too, so of course he was going to stick up for himself.

Then, somehow, he and Jet would reach amicable terms afterwards. They were the strangest brand of friends, Sonic thought. Lamorak and Galahad were the total opposite: Always friendly, and rarely fighting.

As they entered a new hall, Sonic spied the rose window behind him. Sunlight made the crystal glitter. The grand doors stood tall as they closed behind them. Cupid bows rose as stair steps. They looked grand, heavenly, as if to bring whomever was in power closer to the Mother Sunbird. It made Sonic blink curiously.

“Welcome, Milord.”

Sonic glanced back to see the Knighthood Squires reuniting with their respective superiors. As well as Miles. The fox boy looked regal in an adorable sense. Surely too young to serve as a cabinet advisor, he looked wise beyond his short years. His twin tails whirled excitedly. Sonic noticed the boy’s big grin. “It’s time!”

He stepped away from the throne seat at his back. In it were some interesting items: Bundled in a cape were a crown and a pristine pair of gloves. The cape was gloriously scarlet, enclosed by creamy fur-like hems, and gold-sewn into its center was Fanelia’s Flying Dragon. Sonic’s eyes glittered, just as the stones in the regalia did. Careful hands lifted the items, each Consul taking up an article.

Sonic approached Miles first, who presented him the new gloves.

“These special gloves will help in utilizing your magic, Sire. They’ll ensure a firm grip on the Sacred Sword’s hilt, as well as protect your hands from slights in battle. I promise they’re very durable and won’t tatter easily. If they do, just tell me and I can have new ones tailored for you.” He smiled so sweetly.

Upon taking them, Sonic couldn’t help asking, “Wow, everyone multitasks around here, huh? What is it that you do exactly…M-Miles?” the awkward self-correction fell from Sonic’s lips.

The golden-yellow fox blinked before cheerfully answering. “Well, I do a lot of things. It’s true that everyone contributes to the Kingdom’s continuance in more than one way, and I’m no different. I just happen to be your Ambassadorial Cabinet’s Consul-Chancellor, where I keep track of important meetings and keep the balance in them; I’m also the head caretaker of the Fanelian Hospice for the Draconian Aerie—the “innkeeper,” in other words—in coordination with Old Man Nostramazakh; and I assist in maintaining our Noble Forces’ Guymelef battalions, as both Head Mechanic and Major-General.”

‘Whoa.’ Such high-end statuses, for someone so tiny and young. A noticeably dumbstruck look morphed Sonic’s face. ‘This kid’s barely ten years old and already commanding military fleets?!’ His nervous half-smile twitched.

The gloves fit snugly. Atop each hand was a sigil; seemingly a marriage between the Fanelian crest and a radiating sun. Was it his Ensign’s design? Sonic grew more curious as the design replicated itself in the medallions holding his cape together. Gustavio clasped one while Alfred did the other. A rich golden rope hung across Sonic’s chest. The material trained behind him, much to his discomfiture.

The crown awaited on a pillow Miles handed to Alfred.

“And now, to introduce you to your people, my King. This momentous day shall be marked by all, across the lands, seas, and sky. Please allow me to guide you to the Terrace, Sire.” Gustavio started in a gait reminiscent to a king, oddly. Almost as if he were passing the baton to him. It was strange to see the seemingly fussy, bossy, and easily flustered old bird so demure. A kingliness wafted from him. It also came as a pang of gratitude. His own flaxen cape bumped at his back. The rose window’s sparkly sunbeams made everything all the more incredible. Lamorak and Galahad followed closely behind, carrying the tufted hems like veils for a bride. Miles and Alfred followed suit much like they did.

A grandeur Sonic never dreamt he’d feel had plopped down on him. He was so sure it was destiny that his eyes watered. A single tear caught one of those whimsical gleams.

‘Mom,’ came the solemn thought, ‘this is where my promise to you begins.’

 

The Draconian Aerie was given the signal. In order of their musical registers, the dragons harmonized. Valborga started out at a warbling baritone, Arysariel backed it up with an operatic tenor, and Escaflowne threw in a smooth alto with Bastet finishing in a twittering soprano. Within the lull in their harmony, the Terrace doors creaked open. The Doyen sauntered out, holding a sage’s countenance and an announcer’s posture, went up to the balustrade and surveyed the streets below. He saw the men, women, and children Sonic would be protecting in his stead. Small ones were captivated by his attire, due to how the ornamentation sparkled in the high-noon sun. It made a tiny smile grow when he saw one little girl waving from her father’s shoulders.

“Esteemed citizens of this mighty and prosperous Kingdom, I, Chief Guardian Gustavio Macchus, hereby renounce my Sworn Duty to the Throne. Be not dismayed, o faithful citizens—for our prayers have been finally and impeccably answered!”

Sonic could feel his heart pounding at the announcement. All the city’s attention would be on him soon. Jittery from excitement and proudness, Sonic kept his hands in taut fists. One clung to Caliburn for support.

“Lord Uther and Lady Elena’s long-lost heir has been recovered! He is here, and he has pledged his undying courage, allegiance, and protection to us all! Fear not: He may be young and inexperienced, but he shall not be alone. My fellow Consuls and I shall guide him in the ways of governance and diplomacy. The Knights of the Round shall continue to coach him in the ways of control, contest, and self-awareness. He will learn from all of us, so let us welcome him into our Kingdom—let us welcome him home!”

The populace below reveled.

“Come forth and present yourself to your people—Prince Arthur Dalian of Fanelia!”

Right on cue, Sonic stepped out onto the veranda. Careful steps brought him to the balustrade, to the spot Gustavio had moved aside from. Going down on a knee, he felt the albatross’s poleaxe gently tap each of his shoulders. He took in all the vivacious cheering. Citizens of all species, colors, sizes, and ages praised his apparent return. Sonic’s new name was the first thing that clicked: Arthur Dalian was a bit different from what he remembered from his favorite childhood tales. Was that Arthur’s middle name “Dalian,” too, but never stated? At that point, everything felt so unreal Sonic didn’t know anymore. If he really was the Arthur from the stories, then he knew what would follow. He knew everything around him was as real as it was going to get. Armed with his Ensign, Caliburn, and his signature courage he was going to be unstoppable, impossible to hate, and everyone’s hero.

More than anything else, his mother’s hero.

Alfred came up from the other side and showed him the King’s crown. After it was placed on his head, he knew those temporary statuses of “Promising Heir,” “Potential Heir,” and “Lost Prince” would fall away. He would gain a new honor as the official King of Fanelia—it was a most unfathomable and unforgettable moment. The crown fit snugly upon the blue hedgehog’s head. It was perfect. There was no doubt in Sonic’s mind, now, that this was his destiny.

The Aerie’s Dragonsong lifted over everyone’s cheers. Which was drowned out for a moment, leaving Sonic in a daze of mild disbelief. A gentle breeze brought a voice within it. Slowly, a happy smile widened Sonic’s lips. Fruitful tears flourished.

“ _Larsahl’nië_ Sere! _Larsahl’nië_ Sere,” the crowds chanted below.

Balloons of relief, gratitude, and hope floated over them. They were white, wispy, and whirling from the hands of the citizens. Outward praises reached for the heavens. And Sonic watched them grow and grow, herding and molding, into a happiness unified. Those cloudlike bubbles bobbed around in Sonic’s vision; one slipped past his palm. The sun’s light had turned them into daytime lanterns. Much like the spheres of light he saw after pulling Caliburn from the Stone of Avalon.

“ _Larsahl’nië_ Sere! _Larsahl’nië_ Sere! _Larsahl’nië_ Sere! …”

_Here it is—see, Mom? This’ll be my chance to make you happy._

_I’ll show you what I can do and bring myself closer to realizing my dream._

_I’m that much closer…to becoming the best knight you ever had._

_Just keep watching…._

 

An eastbound messenger’s carcass was left mangled from its fall. Its head had bled from the rock that pelted it; its hawk escorts shot through the heart. All the birds’ wings had been torn off, de-feathered, and skinned. Careful hands put the bloody bones into a linen pouch.

A hooded figure lurked through a riverside grove. Sluggishly, rivulets meandered through. Alder islands dotted alongside them. Further down, the rivulets grew into rivers. An enormous river system curved through that great forest. Waters glimmered. Chipmunks chittered a bit mournfully for the dead envoy. One hawk’s rich red scarf tumbled after the hooded figure kicked it away. It sank into a nearby rivulet.

The joyful news would never reach its destination. It was opened, then abandoned, by that murderous stranger.

 

 

 

_Coronation is done…but now, something feels off…?_


	16. Man, kingship's hitting me...like a ton of bricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanelia's powerful and mystical aura has embraced the new king. So have his fellow Knights of the Round and co-administrators. New tidbits of information creep into Arthur's ear from Sir Percival's morning lessons, Sir Gawain's constant strength tests, and Sir Lancelot's enigmatic knowledge of the Draconian Aerie. Just in time for paperwork to start piling up on his new desk. :I/P, alongside another WIP: The Kingdom's atmosphere has changed, as if to sway in my direction... So has everyone else on the Castle Premises - well, almost everyone.

Event Sixteen

 

“The atmosphere’s really changed since I became Fanelia’s King.”

            Arthur found himself wandering. Those halls still looked grand. Sunlight still beamed. Birds, in a variety of songs and colors, still sang. Understanding was beginning to culminate for Arthur. Somehow, his cocky, “lackadaisical” attitude had begun to shed away. Now, he was dedicating himself to Gaean customs and Fanelian functions.

            Like bowing to every woman he made eye contact with. Including, but notwithstanding, Lord Percival. It was a tedious effort, since most of the women he saw were either maids, nurses, or the like. Luckily, since they were younger, the Sylvine Luminaria were good practice partners. Nimue seemed to be the most fanatical about it, preaching that “every lady must be esteemed by any man who passes her.” Why that was boggled Arthur’s mind. _“Sounds like Percival had a hand in that one,”_ he surmised with a falling sweat drop. Although, Arthur wasn’t too miffed by it. He retained the lesson well enough; he put it to use upon spotting a pair of nurses pass him. Bashfully, he bobbed his upper body—almost like a dipping toy. The nurses giggled and curtsied in return. Much deeper than before. He remembered his status change, while scratching his cheek a bit, both dampened by his blush.

            Slowly but surely, as the Doyen had promised, Arthur was learning.

            One thing that Arthur was sure of, in that measly quarter-day: Percival and the Library would become his best friends. Immediately after the ceremony, Arthur accompanied Gustavio on a “kingship tour” around the Castle. Office upon office was shown to him; he had to know where his fellows would most likely be, in case of emergencies or something. During it all, he learned where the Viceroys’ offices were, where Gustavio’s new office was—which was in the Ambassadorial Cabinet alongside Miles’ and Alfred’s. Although, the Doyen had to mention that Head Mechanic Miles spent most of his time in the Noble Forces Hangar. Arthur remembered where the Aerie Hospice was with ease, as well as the Sylvine Luminaria’s Outpost, but learned more about the partially underground barracks.

            The Noble Forces Wing was bigger than he remembered. Several training rooms lied a ways underground. With an armory, a smithy, the Hangar—and hundreds of giant war robots? Miles was actually there to introduce him to one. “These battle-suits are on a much smaller height scale, only reaching 4 _costa_ maximum. But they’re durable and less demanding when it comes to energy.”

            Just by looking at one, Arthur couldn’t figure out how much one _costa_ was, let along four.

            So, he consulted Lord Percival about it, afterwards. Both sat in the Library once more, but in a more interpersonal seating area. That skylight hovered a ways over them as Percival pulled out a book.

            Arthur couldn’t help dreading the lesson. Complete with a note-taking book, a feather pen, and “eraser paste,” he was ready to go physically.

            The lady-Viceroy huffed a tiny sigh. “A quick lesson on measurements, Sire, and perhaps I’ll spare you the hour’s rest to read something _interesting_ to you?” There was a hunter-green book bouncing across the table edge. She also showed him a sweet, convincing smile.

            Well, Arthur couldn’t resist a new story or interesting information. A squiggle inked over his head as he bubbled his cheek. “Okay….”

            But to Arthur and Percival’s dismay, the lesson proved unviable. A heavy sweat drop slipped down both Table members’ jawlines; neither had budged past the arithmetic book’s first page.

            “Ah?”

            “Ermm…?”

            “Do you not understand what this says, Sire?”

            “Umm…!”

            “Can you not read Gaean Script?”

            “Nope. Not a word of it. Not a letter, even.”

            Then, an awkward pause floated between them.

            “…Well, then. It appears you’ll need more extensive study, methinks.” She slapped the textbook shut, brought herself to a stand and her books up to a modest hold. After a deep breath, she concluded with, “Starting tomorrow morning, you will begin schooling, with me as your primary instructor.”

            Arthur’s jaw dropped.

            “Miles and Alfred will be your ancillary instructors, should I ever become unavailable.”

            “Wait! Percival—?!”

            “If that becomes the case, your lessons will carry over to one of them. I will notify them ahead of time, so they can orient themselves to your learning position. You are to report to this study room every morning, after Repast, until Khümlüm’s Drop.”

            “When’ll _that_ be? C’mon, Percival, this isn’t _really_ necessary, is it? I mean…!”

            “Don’t you want to learn the language of your people, Sire?”

            An obvious vexation had entered the 3rd Viceroy’s voice. It made every hair and spine on Arthur’s body stand on end. In a strange way, Percival resembled a strict and bitter librarian. One who was ready to pap a naughty child’s hand, if he so much as disrespected a book in front of her. What made it all the funnier was the pointer she’d—somehow?—armed herself with. Felid tail whipping and fangs hissing, Arthur’s face paled.

            “Yes. Yes, ma’am, I do,” were the only words Arthur could peep. He surrendered with both arms. And mortified rings for eyes.

* * *

Battle cries echoed throughout the Noble Forces’ barracks. Each training room looked to fit up to fifty people comfortably. On that particular day, Gawain was leading a 25-person group in relaxation movements. It was a bit out-of-character for him, even to Arthur, but the young- and oldsters seemed to enjoy it. More attuned to the earth than anyone else, Gawain knew how to get his “students” to calm down through those exercises. Bellows, hums, barks, and audible breaths alleviate tension, an older participant said. They infused outer sensations into each person’s inner feelings, to channel them and balance them out. Thus, ushering in a “relaxed” feeling, afterwards.

            The bellows came loud, sharp, and in time with every other one. Brief—not too long and breathy, yet not too short and constraining. It looked like a marriage between _tai chi_ and _Kung Fu_. It was fascinating to look at, to Arthur.

            Once the exercises concluded, Gawain gave Arthur a beckoning wave. “Come. Let’s do some training, lad.”

            “What—you mean right now?!”

            “Aye. Hand-to-hand. Prepare yourself!”

            That smaller hall and Gawain would officially prove to be “constant strength testers,” in the King’s book. They would come randomly—morning, noon, or night—and intensely. Gawain described himself as a “Paladin-style” swordsman, boasting offensive power the most in combat. Which gave Arthur both an advantage and a disadvantage.

            “Now, Magic-to-Magic! On your guard, Sire!”

            “Yeah, got it!”

            Until his own strength and speed could work against Gawain’s overwhelming power, the random sessions would prove vital to Arthur’s growth. The 2nd Viceroy managed to place his king under the “Knight” category alongside Lancelot, which meant his proficiencies lied both in strength and speed. He was sure Percival and Lancelot would be interested, if a tag-team match between the four of them ever occurred.

            The thought of it made Gawain grin. Only to leave Arthur raising an eyebrow.

* * *

After the training session, Arthur wanted nothing more than something comfortable to flop down on. “Ngh, my body’s killing me,” he complained. “I’m gonna need a pillow and an eye mask _real_ soon….”

            He couldn’t help dragging his feet against the marble. The Rotunda was getting closer. Just down some steps and he’d be home free. “Mm…Naptime’s calling my name.” Sleepy squiggles replaced his eyes. “Don’t worry, bed, I’m coming for…?”

            Arthur’s voice diminished upon spotting Lancelot. He seemed to be leaving the Chapel. The door’s clack brought their attentions together. Such motionless focus made things awkward for a moment—on Arthur’s end, anyway. Lancelot beheld him with an almost curious gaze. Reminiscent to the damask lady-deer on the Stone of Avalon’s lakeshore. His eyes were brighter than usual; steely in every sense, they retained a genuine surprise. A slow release of the handle signaled his attempt to leave.

            “Um, Lancelot?”

            Regal capes veiled the 1st Viceroy’s front and back. Navy cascaded in tiers. Gossamer made them glisten. In the indoor light, those twin beads appeared darker.

            “I, uh, wanted to ask you…something.”

            Lancelot permitted his approach by nodding. After watching Arthur jog up to him, his brows slanted more curiously. He captured the strange expression on Arthur’s face. Tiny stammers and chuckles escaped, just under earshot. “You may proceed, Sire,” Lancelot coached, “you have my attention.” Arthur’s “Oh…good…” sounded uncertain. One more stammer; Lancelot could feel an irritation blossoming somewhere on his head.

            “I wanted to know something. Umm, I saw you…and Arysariel getting along once or twice. But I was curious about how you two met. Just like I am with Percival and Bastet, and Gawain and Valborga, too.” A cheesy grin sutured itself onto Arthur’s face.

            Disarmed by it, Lancelot gave him a lightly startled glower. Soon enough, he gave a pensive hum, motioned Arthur to follow, and started off without him.

            “Each of our stories is different, as you know, Your Highness.”—The new dubbing sounded so weird to Arthur—“Each Draconian’s life experience is different not only for the most obvious of reasons, but also for the more surreptitious ones.” Lancelot opened a Hospice door. Beyond, the Draconian Aerie was taking it easy. Valborga, the sleepy one in the bunch, snored quietly. And surprisingly, to Arthur. “As you are aware, the Tempest Dragon, Escaflowne is the oldest in the Aerie, for rightful reason.”

            Escaflowne, in good timing, responded to Lancelot’s explanation. An agreeable chirrup attested to it. But the chitter that followed made the dragon sound snarky. Arthur couldn’t resist making a face at him. “Really?” he murmured.

            Lancelot continued: “Escaflowne holds a deep sense of pride in his heritage. It’s merely natural for him.” Escaflowne climbed down to nuzzle the Viceroy’s palm. His broad tail snaked back and forth in appeasement. “In a very Draconian way, he is Bastet, Arysariel, and Valborga’s uncle.”

            Arthur’s eyes gaped. “Whoa, wait! What—?!”

            Then came another snarky snicker.

 

The King and Viceroy decided to have a sit-down about the unexpected tidbit of information. Escaflowne, with his smug and perky attitude, didn’t seem anywhere near as mature as Arysariel or Valborga. It could’ve been, however, because both dragons’ temperaments weren’t fully demonstrated to Arthur. In a strange way, it felt like Lancelot knew more about the Draconians than anyone else; he was the best person to ask, it seemed. _“Not bad for a first try. Score,”_ Arthur patted himself on the back.

            The way he was petting Escaflowne’s muzzle seemed reminiscent to how one would indulge a spoiled puppy. Rubbing the underside, Arthur picked up on Escaflowne’s relaxed chirrs. Dumbfounded, and a bit jealous, he puffed a cheek at Lancelot.

            “The Draconian Aerie’s majority descended from the long line of dragons produced by the Fen Dragon, Moloch and the Maiden Dragon, Myriada. As centuries passed and nature coursed, their offspring became more acclimated to their surroundings.” Escaflowne’s head nudged Lancelot’s thigh, as if to ask him something. Lancelot pat his thigh, allowing the dragon to rest his head there. “They left their mother’s nest after birth, one by one, to the hymn Araxes sang to welcome them. The process took ten days, but the hatchlings traveled far—on their own, most of the way. Their father was a looming sentry, looking after each one and checking back on his mate for each and every birth. Each offspring made nests of their own, and after more growth and exposure they became strong enough to fend for themselves. That, in itself, took many years. After so long, the hatchlings lost sight and memory of their brethren, and coupled up to breed three Aerie members.”

            Arthur made a sneaky face. “And since Escaflowne’s the only one who didn’t, wouldn’t that make him a _virgin_ , then?”

            The Tempest Dragon raised his head and deadpanned his master.

            “Perchance, unless you put him in the same league as the Water Dragon, Mordred.”

            A question mark popped over Arthur’s head. “Mordred? What’s the special case with him? Aside from what I think it may…not…be…?” He drawled off, finding it impossible for a dragon to be his nephew-son.

            “Mordred is the only dragon from the Aerie line to produce an offspring with a primordial force. Namely the Demigoddess of Ether, Malundine. She represents the non-physical forces in nature. In her clouds and seas, Mordred’s seed made its way through ancient river systems, and eventually hatched from a lake bottom.”

            Escaflowne had left Lancelot’s caress to taunt Arysariel. He poked his beak at his backside. Every now and then, the Mist Dragon swatted his tail at him. Escaflowne snickered under his breath, beguiled by the gesture.

            Arthur watched the whole thing. “I can only guess who _that_ was….” A tiny smirk crooked after seeing Arysariel score a hit to Escaflowne’s face.

            “Arysariel is…my dearest friend.”

            Arthur turned his sights to the 1st Viceroy. The black hedgehog seemed to be playing a memory in his head as he stared off. His posture indicated pensive appreciation. A somewhat loving look came over his face, dismissing his normally faraway-looking features. It was making his eyes gleam. And that was making Arthur a bit nervous. Tempted to reach out to him, carmine irises became veiled. Ever so softly, Lancelot’s eyelashes caught a few tears. Another thoughtful silence filled the Hospice. Carefully, Escaflowne made his way down to his nest and watched the hedgehogs. All four eyes zoomed in on them. He quickly noticed an awkwardness falling over Arthur; seeing his slight aggravation made him blink and tilt his head.

* * *

Realizing his naptime’s impatience, Arthur ventured back towards the Rotunda, leaving the 1st Viceroy to his office. A bit downcast, Arthur became curious about the Chapel Lancelot had left prior to their sit-down. A unique trope to the “mysterious and somewhat detached wandering _sensei,_ ” Lancelot seemed to be a more informative official. Normally tied to his duties as a co-ruler, their time in the Hospice was a treat. But, soon enough, it was back to business. One thing Arthur noticed was the close proximity of the Viceroys’ workspaces. Within a hollowed ring were Percival, Gawain, and Lancelot’s offices to partially encircle Arthur’s. Each was accessible to Arthur, and vice versa for the Viceroy trio. The three stylized partitions did help him distinguish whose room was whose.

            Not quite ready to lay down for a nap anymore, Arthur ambled a bit in front of the Chapel doors. He was curious about what was behind them. “Probably just pews, a statue, and a lot of bibles,” Arthur surmised. But more concentration went into the notion. The Paradise Goddess, Sephyra was the deity Fanelia worshipped, right? What kinds of legends and hymns were associated with her? If there was a statue, what did it look like—surely, a Heaven goddess would be gorgeous, wouldn’t she? “Come to think of it, a lot of times I’ve seen Lancelot coming out of here was at night…? Does he come here to pray?”

            It was a very sweet and humble notion, somehow. He was learning a lot of new tidbits about him, Percival, Gawain, as well as everyone else.

            “Sir Lancelot’s in ‘is office, y’know?”

            Arthur flinched at Marina’s girlish twang. “Oh? Yeah…I know.”

            “Then, whatcha doin’ prowlin’ around out here fo’…Sire?” she tacked the honor at the end a bit chidingly.

            Arthur deadpanned her. “You’re upset that I became King, aren’t you, Marina?”

            The raccoon girl’s tail frizzed with surprise. A girlish blush had dominated her face; stuttering cheeps made her blush all the more, it seemed.

            Arthur crossed his arms. To press the issue, he continued with, “I always had a feeling you didn’t like me. I don’t know if it’s that you hate my guts or not, but there’s something about me you don’t favor.” His eyebrows arched, before a sneaky grin grew. “And I think I just figured out what it is…!”

            But Marina composed herself just in time to persist, “Oh yea? Betcha didn’t, Miste’ Not-So-Smarty Pants!” She then bubbled her cheek, crossed her arms, and tapped her foot.

            Arthur ran a full body scan over her outfit for a moment: Still lime-green overall, her cross-woven sleeves overtook both tiny arms. Skirt fluffed and bootees strung, she didn’t look too happy about the uniform. Her anchor satchel bounced to her foot taps. Perhaps it was regarding the debate at hand, along with a sour lip-pucker and crossed arms. Going by her body language, the young King could tell she was hiding something. It made an eyebrow peak.

            “Don’t worry. I know, alright.”

            “Nuh-uh! No, ya don’t!” she shot back, stamping her foot.

            “I do. Trust me. I totally do.”

            “No! No, no, no, ya don’t, and _that’s that!_ Humph!”

            “But I’m not saying anything.”

            Both her ears pricked upward. Surprise marked her features, as did her wide-eyed blinking. “Huh?!” she exhaled, seeing him bring both hands into a surrendering gesture.

            Arthur only shrugged. “I won’t say anything. You have my word, Marina.”

            “I-I don’t even know what _you_ know—so…! How can _you_?! ‘Coz ya don’t! Ya don’t—do ya?”

            The sixteen-year-old knelt down in front of her and smiled. He brought up a hand. “We can shake on it. It’ll lean more towards your favor, even if I spill the beans. I promise you my word, really, Marina. And if I break it, I can, uhh…” He lifted his eyes to think. “Ooh, I know! I’ll do your chores for a whole month! How’s _that_ sound?”

            “Ya moron! Why would I agree to that?! Ya don’t even know whatchu’re promisin’ to me, ya idiot!”

            An understanding clasp brought the little girl’s hand into his. Marina’s tail bristled and quavered a bit. Her tiny lips wiggled as she watch Arthur’s hand rub hers. She hesitated before turning her adamant blue eyes to him; seeing his made her grumble.

            “But, at least, you do. Right?”

            Suspicious aquamarines darted from his eyes down to their hands and back again. “Y’aint gotta get all familiar and stuff, Young Lord.” But her stubborn blush said otherwise.

            His smile was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen from him. “We have an agreement, then?” That reassuring tone made her grumble again. Looking away again, she puckered her lips once more. “Yea…” After she caved, Arthur gave her hand a firm shake; then moved in to lightly peck it. “Bwah!” Marina jumped away, snatching her hand out of his. “What wazzat fo’?!”

            But Arthur countered her with a yawn. He’d gotten to his feet and batted it away to reply, “Just trying to be a good gentleman, that’s all.” And, just as coolly, he walked off. His scarlet cape swung at his turn. Nothing more was said, exchanged, only left to muddle through. Especially for Marina.

_“I knew it. She has a kiddy crush on me.”_

            The King had left her to stammer, wonder, and go red all over again.

_“It’s…actually kinda cute.”_

* * *

Finally, Arthur was greeted by those plush cushions and bed sheets. The days grew longer to Arthur, with each lesson, training session, and paper that came his way. Paperwork bombarded him, but Gustavio insisted to take half the load. As the new King of Fanelia, his chiefly duties kicked their way in, perhaps even giving him a few concussions. More like dizzy spells, especially with those document stacks he could barely read. Much to his chagrin he made sure Percival was at his side in those endeavors. Learning from her in the morning and putting it into practice in the noontime did wonders for his comprehension.

            But Arthur’s brain was still the strangest creature on the face of the Mystic Moon. This time, during his nap, some sounds around him made him jolt up and blink sleepily. “Hmm…?” Not hearing anything anymore, he nodded off and slipped back down onto the pillows. There hadn’t been any noises, however; perhaps they’d been from a dream?

            The sounds came across as music notes. They strummed, one by one, into a lullaby. One Arthur remembered from childhood, on Earth. It made him wonder again, as he slept: _“How do Escaflowne and my mom know the same song?”_

 

 

_Huge, confounding bricks, mostly…_


	17. I don’t think…I’ve ever had a morning quite like this one!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Counterpoised events begin to take shape. While Arthur continues to adjust himself to Fanelian life, the good news has finally reached the Kingdom's most trustworthy neighbors—perhaps ones that have been waiting the longest for it, second to Fanelia, herself. :I/P, alongside another WIP: ...So, apparently, I'm getting a coronation party...!

Event Seventeen

 

Sycamore groves wept to raucous wails. Banshee shrieks wrecked the silence. Smaller fauna scampered away, while birds fled in uneasiness. The bespangled night overlooked the bizarre ritual. Hot coals were beginning to smolder, but anticipation seemed to keep them lit.

            A lithe body swayed. Curving, twisting back and forth. More wails preceded bends and shaking. Vaguely, it sounded like the writhing silhouette was chanting something. Incomprehensible words came in breathy rasps. Gold bangles clanged. Beads shimmied in an unsteady rhythm. The coal bed continued to bake the pigeon and hawk bones on top.

            There was one loud snap, and it brought the shadowed figure to a standstill. Anxious tension died away as more snaps popped. Two—three—four snaps.

            “Hah…so it is true?” sneered the figure. The womanly voice sounded croaky, raspy. “The little brat’s finally taken the seat…? And that dimwitted albatross let him? How loathsome.”

            The smoke from the coals wafted up. A slightly arthritic hand fanned it towards her, to her face, her nose and tongue. Tasting the fumes, she made a bitter expression. She even gritted a fang. The birds’ forelimb bones had split: One an oblique break, another in a Y shape, and a pigeon bone snapped cleanly while a hawk’s resembled a shattered fissure. At the sight of them, she grimaced.

            “A disquiet…a crossroads…a confession, and a demise,” she muttered, placing the hood back on her head.

            Piercing eyes locked onto her. An angular set narrowed. “Is that all you could see?” they asked.

            The hooded woman acknowledged them. Then, bowed her head. “…Yes, for now.”

            Three other shadows dropped down from the umbrage. The woman eyed their approach, sprinkled a powder onto the coals, further igniting a much brighter fire. She could see the new faces in that light. Strangely, her grimace softened and a spark of interest could be seen.

            The Nymphus Nox had returned, this time farther from the borders of the Fanelian Kingdom. The swordswoman trio was welcomed by the mysterious woman. Her halfhearted curtsy was well-received, exchanged with more knightly bends.

            “The Lost Prince has returned to take Fanelia’s throne seat.”

            The purple swallow, Linde, made a confused face. “There was a Lost Prince? I didn’t know anything about that.”

            “Yes, the son of Uther Pendragon, dead husband to Elena Aura IV. He’s been recovered; apparently, he’s the boy you tried to capture a time back.”

            Linde flinched. “You meant that unarmed kid those priss-roy knights had?!”

            “It seems our master will be even more displeased by this news,” the echidna, Shamarazad, pointed out.

            “Not necessarily.”

            The swordswomen gave the hooded woman ranging skeptical looks.

            “Your master has not lashed out or berated you, has he? He’s surely ascertained this information by now, even with the messengers’ ‘uncharacteristic tardiness.’” The fire crackled from a bone’s lean. The white bat’s eyes glimmered in it. “His intel has been easier to obtain, especially with that Sorcerer he’s employed.” The bat’s brows dipped. “He’s quite the soul-sore; unabashed in his unnatural and immoral procedures. Someone should look into his execution…?”

            Suddenly, Shamarazad’s quarterstaff sharpened into a falchion. Its blade threatened to slice open the woman’s neck. The brutish echidna narrowed her eyes again. “You know of him? Does that make you my enemy now…Old Hag Orathsheba?”

            The other woman said nothing while remaining completely unfazed; she merely reached into her cloak, took out a pouch, and placed it on the sword’s edge. “Calm yourself, and your Crima Weapon. It makes me no such thing, dear girl,” she cooed as she did this. “You can still trust me.” Shamarazad’s face loosened a bit. She gave Linde a signal to approach. Cautiously, the avian woman snatched the bag from the blade and crept back to her fellow. The lady-bat locked eyes with her, while her teammates awed over three sparkling crystals inside. “Oh! Red Energists! Erismene will _love_ one of these!” Linde chirped happily, bouncing from one leg to the other. “Lucky~ lucky~!”

            But Shamarazad snarled, “Noisy squawk! You want an enemy to hear you?” She whipped the falchion away, transforming it back into a quarterstaff, and stabbed its tip into the sand. Her dark glare made a jab at Orathsheba. “Ex-Shaman. Our business here is far from over. We will meet again, when the need arises. This encounter shall be duly noted. Now, begone.”

            After a sharp swipe of her weapon’s tip, sand was tossed onto the hot coals. They were smothered, as were the fire and bones. The faintest smoke trail became lost in the swordswomen’s departure. Trees boughs shook in the direction of the alder grove, from which she’d come. A half-smirk dimpled under her deep hood. “Will do, my dear. Consider me…a provisional ally,” she added, resuming her way northward once more.

            Only the Mystic Moon watched her every move.

 

* * *

 

The sun lifted over the eastward mountains, far across from Arthur’s bed. His windows had been left open from the night last. Moon- and stargazing, Arthur had wondered about Escaflowne for a short while. A lot of thinking passed with the time, and thoughts about his own origins began to confuse him. _“I’m pretty sure I was born on Earth,”_ he’d kept reminding himself. _“I even remember the hospital I was born in. Granma had told me, herself….”_ Then, questions about his grandmother’s unknown death reared their ugly heads. When?—How?—Why? Nothing was clearly answered yet, so Arthur resolved to ask Percival again shortly after morning repast.

            It came instantly; right after sunlight prickled across his face. His closed eyes squinted for a moment. But it was too bright, so he turned them away. “Unh…so bright…Hngh.” Sonic’s brain-gears started clanking together. “It’s morning, I guess. Time to get ready for school…Ugh.”

            Pulling himself out of bed, Arthur noticed his necklace hanging outside of his nightshirt. The little green shard greeted him, once again. Somehow, it never lost its shine or luster. It’d been forgotten since his landing in Gaea, hadn’t it? Now, questions swirled around the jewel. But Arthur threw a wrench in them, tossing the pendant into his shirt. _“I’ll think about that later.”_ Turning his eyes from it to the cherry armoire, he made himself grin. “Let’s see what kind of outfit I can put together, today…!”

 

_“Dear Headmaster Alfred,” a response from the Mercrusian Queen had begun. Miles read, while Vanille and Nimue overlooked each shoulder. “It has done my heart so much good to hear of the newly recovered Prince! My Kingdom and her people rejoice in this news! My heart is jolly, brimming with relief—I must see how much the Prince—ehm,_ King _has grown!”…_

            King Arthur set foot outside of the Rotunda and noticed something odd: Housekeepers were going through their usual morning rounds of cleaning, but at a much heavier pace. Scouring the floors, walls and banisters, dusting off paintings and artifacts, even the engraved moldings were getting some tender loving care. Arthur had never noticed the dust or dirt; probably because the workers made sure he never did. He couldn’t help blinking, wondering if he should remove his shoes.

_“I have arranged an accompanied visit to Fanelia—to see you, dear Catkin, and your new King! King Schezar of Asturia has agreed to join us in this trek north. He and his daughters will be coming alongside me and my own lovely son! We shall be promised an audience with the new young lord, yes?” Miles’ eye twitched a little._ “Please, don’t sound so desperate, milady….” _He cleared his throat. “Please expect my and Asturia’s ferries within your borders in the next week or two; we will be utilizing the Fassa Thoroughfares in our travels.”_

            In efforts not to irritate his workers, Arthur took off his shoes. He also made sure to be careful and out of everyone’s way. His bare feet planted themselves onto the damp surface with each step. Most of the maids gawked, dumbfounded and embarrassed by the display. But, in the sweetest way possible, Arthur waved it off, insisting, “It’s okay. I like walking on wet floors, for some odd reason. Especially odd for someone who’s nervy around water, right?”

            A couple maids’ uneasy flushes dissipated at the sound of him chuckling.

_“My excitement is brimming! I want to congratulate King Arthur on his ascension to our Eldest Sister’s Throne! He must be the spitting image of both Father Uther and Elena-dear…I must sigh, forgive me, Catkin. Any-hoo, by the time this letter reaches you, we should be on our way! I bid you adieu—until we arrive!”_

_Miles, Vanille, and Nimue gave the letter another look-through. They blinked in relative time_ _to one another. “Does this mean we’re going to throw a party?” little Vanille asked. She turned her sights to Miles first._

_“Well, I’m assuming so…if both King Schezar_ and _Queen Tiamara are coming,” Miles drawled at the end._

_Then, her sights went to Nimue._

_“Yeah, there’ll be glitz and glamor…all over the place. It’s almost expected whenever she comes by.” The pink hedgehog sounded experienced, and exasperated, when she made the claim. “It’ll probably take_ two _weeks to clean_ and _decorate this place top-to-bottom.”_

_“Now remember, Nimue, this news is fairly new to them, so treat it as it is to them, okay?”_

_“I’m not going to blurt out ‘Old news’ in front of them, Miles!”_

_“I didn’t think you would…?”_

_Vanille giggled a little._

 

“What’s with all the hubbub?”

            Fanelia’s Doyen Consul-General turned to see Arthur, with his shoes back one, but forgot to soften the authority crooking his scowl. Spooked by it, Arthur cringed.

            “Sire, welcome back to the Dining Hall. I was hoping to receive a second opinion about this setup.” The albatross made a grand gesture outward, to show him all the effort put into it.

            Arthur took a few more steps out: The chandelier’s crystal sparkled even more than he’d remembered. He noticed a flock of tender-handed women tying more crystals onto cords that would hang from the centerpiece. They bobbed in an undulating design. Three more sets would hang a tad shorter than it. Ribbons’ worth of sapphires, emeralds, rubies, and topaz would thread between all of them. How they were getting up there made Arthur smile. From their stepladders, the maids called on “house-pigeons” to hook each string into place.

            He turned his sights toward ground-level. Tables were cloaked in the finest white linens. Decorative centerpieces ranged from a fresh still-life to ceramic stemware, with floral bouquets, to gold vases. Along the cloths’ hems trailed Celtic knots. There were a lot of chairs, too.

            “Is it to your liking, Sire?”

            “Sure…but what exactly is all of this for?” Arthur had to ask.

            “For your coronation banquet, of course.”

            “My what?” Nervous blinks. Gustavio was as blunt as always.

            “Business matters have already started for you, yes? Merely because kingdom affairs cannot wait, so I had you assume responsibility immediately. As your Consul-General, I am to advise you on said responsibilities, since you lack the experience. Naturally, mind you, so don’t fret.” He showed off the Hall’s immaculate beauty. “But the time has come to celebrate your ascension, Milord! It will do everyone a great good to partake in a bit of meat and mead, would it not?” His vivacious pat on Arthur’s back sent the boy-king reeling.

            Arthur could’ve sworn the elder bird wasn’t like that a minute ago. _“You get him to relax—just a_ little _bit—and he turns into a completely different person!”_ Arthur notated, blinking wildly. Recovering swiftly, he turned to see him guffawing. An odd pleasance had come over him. _“And…it’s kinda great!”_

            Even Galahad and Lamorak had been pulled into helping to decorate. Both were tasked with changing out the hall’s draperies. After straightening the door valances, Lamorak caught sight of King Arthur’s wardrobe. He became flustered by the combination of aubergine, gold, and baby blue. Royal-purple shorts, with that crisp baby-blue vest? Those gold sashes made sense? But his annoyingly red shoes stuck out like sore thumbs! The avian Squire’s flush became more noticeable the longer Galahad awaited his attention. How could he put those colors together like that? And why were they making so much sense? Where was his cape, his sword—goodness, where was his crown? It was making his head swirl. Lamorak’s blood began to boil.

            Galahad blinked at his gritted teeth. “I was expecting a disaster,” he heard Lamorak utter through them. He wondered why he was so irritated. Catching a glance at Arthur’s outfit as well, a sweat drop rolled. “But…what he’s put together…actually makes sense? He doesn’t need my instruction anymore?!” Galahad could see Lamorak breaking down without needing to look. _“And, somehow,_ that _unhinges you?”_ Galahad had no choice in pondering.

            “Oh, Milord Arthur~!”

            Arthur’s ear perked up to the girlish twitter. Much to his surprise, the Messenger trio came trotting towards him. The prim-and-proper Vanille made her way over the fastest, hopping up to give him a big hug. “Yay! You’re our King, now! Yippee!”

            “Whoa! I didn’t know it was that big a deal,” Arthur chuckled, then lead the little girl into a little jig. He twirled her around a bit. She laughed playfully, letting out a “You’re the best!” while she was at it. So much attachment had grown between them, even in those semi-occasional encounters he had with her. He nuzzled her right back, laughing with her.

            “Hey! I wannid—bwah?!”

            Still twirling, Arthur caught Marina shushing herself. She had slapped her hands her mouth. He winked at her as she covered her blush. And like he never saw it went right back into dancing with Vanille. “La la~ ba la-la~!” Vanille repeated after him. He hopped from side to side, around and around, thoroughly enjoying himself. Despite the lack of music, both the hedgehog and rabbit made up their own lyrics. It was enough for Nimue to yank Marina into joining them.

            Gustavio crossed his arms. He let out a gladdened huff.

* * *

 

A burnished teapot gleamed. Steam whistled, crying out “I’m ready! I’m ready!” to one of the Viceroy-Knights. Two teacups awaited. So did an array of sweeteners. Inside each cup was a strainer ball; one contained a jasmine oolong blend, while the other held Jajuka Island green tea. The mixed aromas made Percival smile.

            She was finally able to wheel in a cart from the Galley: She’d been hounded by its Head Chef, who was still in the process of planning the coronation dinner’s menu. The lady-snake asked her to taste several dishes, unsure which palettes would suit the occasion. Something festive—perhaps a fruity appetizer? Would _lelbul_ or _makhber_ be better? To Percival, it all tasted wonderful. It was hard to pick a favorite. Or even come up with a suggestion. Luckily, Alfred came to inquire about the menu. And, low and behold, he took Percival’s place as taste tester, allowing her a moment’s “escape.”

            _“Everything was delicious, truly…Forgive me, Madam Larza.”_ Sir Percival let out a sigh before taking up the tea tray.

            Parchments shuffled. Datebooks were stacked to one side. Kindly, Percival had set the Jajuka green tea out, along with the dish of sweeteners. She poured some steamy water over each strainer ball. Beautifully light textures permeated through their mesh, coloring it. Then, she took the jasmine oolong into her own hands. Whiffs of floral bliss prickled inside her nose.

            “I can see why you indulge yourself so frequently, Lancelot.”

            As she spoke, the 1st Viceroy had begun to sip his tea. Not too far away, his eyes skimmed over a document he just couldn’t put down. Percival giggled at the futility in her statement; he looked so focused, suddenly. But somehow, she picked up on the confusion in her fellow’s expression.

            “Is something wrong?” she wondered, blinking.

            “This document…I can’t read it.”

            “Hmm? For true. May I have a look?”

            Then, at the moment Percival sat up, tea in her hands, playful laughter echoed up the hall. Just outside, Arthur and the Sylvine Luminaria were racing up the hall.

            “Ya can’t beat me, slowpoke!”

            “Who’re you callin’ ‘slow’? You’re lookin’ at a track star, here!”

            “C’mon! Let’s go to Gladiolus Stadium. That’s where the Aerie is today!”

            “Yay! Playtime! Playtime!” …

            The happy dialogue eased Percival’s mind and stirred her heart. The newly instated King—a mysterious rogue on the day he was discovered—had already grown accustomed to Fanelia and began developing a deep love for it. More training and trials were needed to test his confidence and faith, but he’d already risked his own life to save hers. She smiled sweetly.

            “So that’s where they’ve all been, huh?” Her question about Bastet’s whereabouts had been answered. She lowered her sights to see what it was Lancelot was struggling to read. It seemed highly unlikely, but that grade of confusion was hard to feign. “Let’s see…” Both Knights were scholars, especially in languages. Percival couldn’t stand misspelled words, while Lancelot was quick to correct mispronounced ones. So, when the lady-knight took one glance at the paper, she wasn’t sure if anything was spelled right—or wrong.

            “Oh my…!”

            “Do you know what it says?” Lancelot looked up at her.

            Felid eyes gawked in surprise. “I haven’t the slightest…?”

            They blinked at each other. Then, back at the paper. Out of all the strange symbols, a drawing took up one corner. Although, it was hard to tell what it was.

* * *

 

Ensiform leaves fluttered in the post-springtime breeze. Summer was approaching, so the Sylvine Luminaria finally chanced a sportier look. Their distinctive patterns never deviated, but their colors became bolder and brighter: Nimue’s pastel blue darkened to a rich cerulean. Her petticoat gave room for movement. Underneath, a sky-blue skirt accented white leggings—a lot like Percival’s in style. Sleeves still puffy and collar not as fluffy, Nimue sauntered onto the Stadium ring. She clapped in a timely rhythm. Her blue slippers clacked it out, as well.

            “Bas-tet, Val-bor-ga, Es-ca-flow-ne~ and A-ry-sa-ri-el, time to play~!”

            Vanille joined in her chant and sway dance. She clapped in time with her, smiling happily and rousing the dragons out of rest. The Nocturne Dragon, Bastet immediately came out of her recline. Escaflowne and Arysariel followed, albeit slower. The Earth Dragon, Valborga gave the girls a strong exhale. A smoky musk assailed their noses.

            “Valborga ain’t interested in ‘playtime,’ lassies.”

            Arthur and Marina’s ears perked up. The raccoon girl held her arms in a cross, at the King’s heels as he approached the dragon. His large eye followed the hedgehog’s movements. From that side, Arthur called up, “Heh heh, you nappin’ up there, Gawain?”

            “Aye. We share a love for sleeping in the sun, Valborga and I. It’s a pastime of ours.”

            “You don’t say…?” Arthur winked; Valborga blinked in return.

            “You an’ the lassies can play. I’m sure Bastet’s up for it.”—Percival’s companion hopped up and down like an excited child.—“You’ll want to ask Arysariel, though. Except, I’m sure his uncle could coach him into it, no problem.”

            That cued the Tempest Dragon’s foolhardy snicker-fit. The Mist Dragon, on the other hand, gave Gawain a hiss before leering coldly at Escaflowne.

            A round of tag had begun for Nimue, Vanille, Arthur, and Bastet. Thinking it’d be impossible to “tag” her, Arthur proposed Bastet’s ghost cloak to be disengaged. That way, she’d be “solid” to the touch. All was well until she actually became “it”: In a way she was too good at the game, as the fastest and most evasive one in the group. But then, Arthur came up with an idea. “Is she too fast for you? Well, I can match her!” he huffed in confidence. “Just you watch. This’ll be a game of reflexive speed: Back home, my friends and I called it ‘Ninja,’ and here’s how it works….”

            Entranced by the game, the hedgehog girl and rabbit girl balled their fists with eyes sparkling. Marina kept her arms taut, seeing Arthur and Bastet avoiding each other’s strikes flawlessly. “Ooh…!” she heard her teammates drawl. She rolled her eyes.

            Miles was also watching it. Soon, he noticed Escaflowne tilting his head to each miss Arthur made. A bit confused, he inched closer to get a better look. His two-legged creep grabbed Arysariel’s attention. He flicked a tongue at his uncle’s back.

            “Sorry to break it to you, Arysariel, but…” Miles had spoken from next to him. He scratched the back of his head. “You tend to fall for Escaflowne’s tricks. A tad too easily.” His twin tails flared around. Arysariel’s tongue flicker came in a guiltier variant, this time. “I know you mean well when you resist, and you’re not trying to hurt his feelings. But then, he gives you that ‘sad little kid’ face and your heart turns to mush.” The fox boy giggled. He showed him a friendly hand. “You have to admit you’re a lot nicer than you want people to think you are.”

            Arthur would have lost the round—and possibly some skin—if he hadn’t dodged Bastet’s quick lunge. A hulking sweat drop fell. “Too close…a lotta bit too close, there…Don’t stab me, now.” Arthur finished his sidestep and grinned nervously. “You’d never hear the end of it if that happened, Bastet. Percival would be on a roll.” He laughed off his nervousness. Although, he saw Bastet’s mask displaying a scared face. Complete with guilt-ridden tears “falling” down her face. “Oh! Bastet, it’s okay! You didn’t hurt me, see? I know you’d never do it on purpose, even if you had. It’s okay…!” Sad twitters tugged at Arthur’s heartstrings. “C’mere, you win this round. It’s all right, now.”

            Gawain smiled at Arthur’s openheartedness. Even Valborga made a sympathetic hum.

            The Nocturne Dragon’s mask glided up and down the King’s cheek, to nuzzle him. It rumpled his fur, but Arthur just kept petting her. Her neck feathers were so soft; they were contradictory to her sharp wings and sharper tail feathers. “That must’ve scared you, huh? I was scared too, for a second there. But no worries…okay?” Relieved tweets encouraged him to nuzzle her back. He grinned, but soon found himself being tickled. Bastet has wrestled him to the floor with her mask alone. Much happier now, Bastet focused on Arthur’s stomach. The rest of her perched down, completely entertained.

            “Aww~!” Nimue and Vanille cooed, hands on their cheeks. Marina turned her head to hide her blush.

            Miles saw Arysariel lower his eyes. But the fox mechanic gave him another gentle pat on his snout. “Just like your master does, huh?” The boy’s smile reminded him of said master. Recalling him made Arysariel lower his face, as well.

            All of which was caught by Escaflowne’s eye.

 

 

_And it’s just gonna keep getting better and better—I can feel it…!_


	18. Wow…I don’t think I’ve had a morning quite like this, either!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Monarchs of both Asturia and Mercrusia are scheduled to arrive, so the festivities are set to begin. The Kingdoms' Biggest Sister is reveling, people are praising the upcoming event as well as its main participant. Arthur wants to have a little fun before getting back down to business; what better way to do that than to see it up close-and-personal? :I/P, alongside another WIP: Let the fun commence~!

Event Eighteen

 

Night had fallen, but morning soon rose again. A purplish halo from the eastward mountain range alerted the ferrymen that dawn had arrived. An exchange in shifts commenced just as the Asturian King awakened. The flaxen chinchilla greeted the sunrise. The Mercrusian Queen, however, didn’t allow it to interrupt her sleep; her eye mask let her remain unaware. Her son slept across the room from her, mimicking his mother with an eye mask of his own.

            “Sister? What do you think the new King’s like?”

            The eldest Asturian Princess, Marceline, looked down into her younger sister’s eyes. Lustrous, ruffled curls tumbled behind her back, but the middle sister’s curls stopped under her chin. Tender brush strokes smoothed the kinks out. Marceline smiled at her.

            The youngest of them, Mariette, stayed snuggled up in her bed. Curls of her own cradled her shoulders.

            “I think he sounds like a decent young man,” Marceline answered. She took a few of her sister’s curls and fluffed them. “He should be strong, brave, but have a calm spirit. He will grow as he learns and ages, he has a lot of support at his back. And…” Suddenly, in a whispering sneaky tone, “He’s _your_ age, Moira.” She giggled, toying with her cheeks.

            But the teenager merely pouted. “Don’t go marrying me off to somebody I’ve never met now, Sister.”

            The hand brush’s rose gold accent sparkled in the incoming light.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, let’s see if this is how they do it.…”

            The Fanelian King was already up. Impressed that he was awake before the Viceroy trio, Arthur had snickered a little. Now, as he stood in the Rotunda’s midst, he began to gather his Ensign’s power. His shut eyes tightened together.

            “If I call upon my power, I should be able to summon my armor at will, right?”—But then, he remembered something.—“I can’t summon it if I’m not wearing it beforehand, can I?” Let down, he sighed; the disappointment quickly morphed into curiosity. “Where is my armor, anyway? And I wonder what color it is…?”

            Recounting on the Viceroys’ armor, Arthur noticed they were more distinctive to each one’s personality rather than their rank. He wondered what color his would be, should he need to wear it. But with Gawain’s being a coppery tone, and Percival and Lancelot’s bearing contrasting lusters of silver, would Arthur’s be bronze, brass—? _“It’s gold. It’s gotta be gold. It makes the most sense,”_ he thought.

            Arthur strode towards the stairs. His wind powers kept themselves at a controlled taper, since Arthur was unsure how much Magic was needed to change his wardrobe. _“My cape’s length can change with this power, too, can’t it?”_ he changed his query. Going up, the sunlight awaited him at the top. Keeping focus, the last step brought him into the light’s path. That was when his ruby-red cape began to shorten. Gilt tendrils flourished around the train, bringing the Fanelian crest into a more compact design. The faux fur rested as a cowl around Arthur’s neck. It stopped midway of the hedgehog’s back; a half-cape, much like Lancelot’s pelerine jacket.

            “Sweet! That’s so cool!” Arthur cheered in pride. He skipped over to a wall mirror to check himself out. “It’s super-convenient, too—and, not to mention, _really_ awesome!” He couldn’t contain his sense of accomplishment. “I’m getting a real hang of this, huh?” Then, he gave another snicker.

            Suddenly, the King caught wind of a song: It was Escaflowne. “It must be his turn for morning clarion,” he said, turning his eyes towards the sunrise. Trying to pinpoint the notes, Arthur’s brow lowered. “I don’t remember hearing this song before. Wonder what it is…It sounds really pretty.”

            Arthur brought his hands up to the balustrade and listened a bit more.

* * *

“All of our pigeons are back, now!”

            Nimue did a headcount for each cell that had been sent out. “…Hold on. Where’s our Freid unit?”

            Vanille made a scared face. “Oh no! Maybe they got lost, or a dragon got them…!”

            “Dragons aren’t that malicious, Vanille.” Miles trotted in to see if he received any mail. “They don’t bother birds, really. There’s no reason for them to…unless they’re desperately hungry.” Out came an awkward chuckle.

            “Hey, that ain’t a nice thing to say, Miles!” Marina snapped, after the rabbit girl cringed and started to cry. “Now, look whatcha did! Ya dun made her cry!”

            Miles flinched in an overly exaggerated fashion. Somehow, he had envisioned a famished Escaflowne snapping his jaws around one of the guard hawks, eating it whole, then snickering evilly. “Ah, I’m sorry—I was just speaking from a factual standpoint! I’m sure they’re fine, they’ll find their way back. Don’t worry.” He waved his hands defensively. “Okay?”

            Nimue gawked at the twin-tailed fox trying to make nice with Vanille and Marina. The seven-year-old was clearing her tears away as she watched Marina defend her ferociously against Miles, who had no other choice but to cower and take the verbal hits. Somewhat amused, the oldest Messenger stroked one pigeon’s head, holding a sneaky smile.

* * *

 

Morning Repast began sometime before more activity in the Castle started. The Fanelian streets were starting to bustle, as well. Townspeople were beautifying their shop fronts and vendor stands. All five of Fanelia’s upper quarters looked forward to accommodating Asturian and Mercrusian patrons. Tillman’s Bar & Brewery was closed for the morning, so he and his daughter went out to help some neighbors. Scampering up the walkways, she went on ahead; Tillman watched her meet up with a female red squirrel to collaborate on an endeavor. Seeing them made him smile.

            City sentries patrolled the streets. Ones on foot were asked to help in more public ways, like changing out worn-down lamplights and checking water meters. Mounted guards remained most vigilant around Fanelia’s southwestern entrance, the Euboea Belvedere. Eye nor word of Asturia and Mercrusia’s approach had come in, yet. Hawk-eyed sentries watched from high above. A common exchange in the waterways was within eyeshot of Sporades Rampart, which faced southward. It was long for a lake. Water-faring travelers used the lake as a harbor before setting out into the Fassa Thoroughfares. Named after a fairly well-traveled merchant, the southbound river system was. They were tricky to sail north through, but steam ferries made it less grueling. One other way was easier; the Mist Dragon, Arysariel was an exclusive ferry to Sir Lancelot, however.

            “Ho! Asturia and Mercrusia, to the south-southeast,” a sentinel suddenly cried.

            Another sentinel bearing a yellow tassel badge ordered, “Prepare the escorts! Sir Mikhail, alert the Doyen of their arrival!”

            “Yes, sir!”

 

Winding alongside the lake, a lonely cart buckled over a small bridge. Off to the right stood the Aegean Safeguard, massive and tall. Nigh indestructible. A young bee buzzed happily all over the place. “We’re here—we’re _finally_ here! Fanelia, Fanelia!”

            “Riche, will you please siddown?!” the cranky crocodile sitting in the cart piped up. An irritated vein pulsed at his crown. “They’re not gonna let us in if we’ve got a rambunctious brat like you!”

            “Settle down, Trammor,” chimed the chameleon driving the cart’s mule. “They won’t let a ‘rambunctious’ _adult_ like you in either, one who snaps at and berates children.” His sneaky smile faced forward.

            “Aw c’mon—whose side are you on, anyways, Vintasse, huh?!” Comical tears squiggled from the crocodile’s eyes.

            “Yeah, Boss, you’d better _bee_ nice to me, or else they won’t let you in~!” The bee child, Riche, chuckled after plopping back onto the cart bed.

            “Then stop acting like a brat so we _can_ get in—how’s that?”

            The chameleon couldn’t stop the crocodile’s knuckles from scuffling against the boy’s helmet repeatedly. Their noise level worried him, perhaps alerting the Fanelian guardsmen of nothing but trivial nonsense. A drop of hopeless sweat clung to Vintasse’s jawline. _“Oh my…you_ both _need to stop acting rambunctious, so we don’t get pulled over….”_ But the thought remained as it was; Vintasse let out a just-as-hopeless sigh. The mule towing them whinnied in an almost sympathetic manner.

 

* * *

 

“Alright! Repast has passed! So, let’s hop right to it! Girls?”—Arthur sweetly called for the Sylvine Luminaria’s assistance—“Would you like to help me be a good host to my royal guests?”

            Sparkly-eyed and inhaling excitedly, Nimue and Vanille were the firsts to bring their practice swords up to unite with Arthur’s real one. Not quite as high, but loyal, nonetheless. “Consider the offer already accepted, Milord! We’re at your service!”

            Though, Marina was the last to join her sword with theirs. A pouting look bubbled her cheeks and lips. “Yea yea, let’s get this ove’ wit a’ready….”

            “If we may, Lord Arthur…?”

            Arthur turned to see the Viceroy trio approaching: They all seemed ready to welcome the royal guests, as well. Sir Percival’s peplum skirt bore more frills than Arthur remembered. The overall wardrobe hadn’t changed much, but it looked softer, more ladylike than librarian-like. Although, her eyeglasses were pouched, in a rich magenta case, on her right hip. Sir Gawain’s shirt was closed, long-sleeved, but light. His emerald circlet gleamed, as did his boot cuffs. Despite the entrance of summer, he didn’t mind wearing his strongman boots. To a similar effect, Sir Lancelot never abandoned his navy scheme. Instead, he reduced it to a tailed belt, which canopied his deeply pleated breeches, and a split-sleeved pelerine. Snowy white accented the outfit in his undershirt, sash, and bootees.

            Percival smiled genuinely. “We would like to keep guard, and assist you in hosting our Sister Kingdoms.” She led her fellows into a modest bow.

            Upon seeing this, Arthur scratched the back of his head. “Ah…? Keep guard, huh? Sure, as long as you don’t seclude yourselves from everyone, that’s totally fine with me!”

            “Eh, ‘seclude ourselves,’ Young Lord?” Percival stuttered, blinking a bit in confusion.

            “Yeah! We’re going outside for this one!” Striking a captain’s pose, “Onward, to the streets of Fanelia! Let’s go!”

            The Sylvine Luminaria leapt into the air, throwing their hands into the air. Even Marina liked the sound of that plan. “Yay~!” they sang altogether.

            King Arthur’s unexpected plan threw the Viceroys for a loop. Gawain’s surprise manifested as a gruff sigh and palm to the face. Lancelot’s unresponsiveness led him to wordlessly following. Percival noticed Vanille pulling Miles into the march, while Nimue managed to snag both Lamorak and Galahad. Arthur led the kiddy march, with Vanille, Marina and Miles and Nimue, Galahad, and Lamorak locking arms. “C’mon, hup—two, three, four!” Arthur repeated with big-kid enthusiasm. His exaggerated marching was peppered with spins and sashays, to which his younger followers tried to mimic. “Open the gates! We’re heading out!” To the King’s order, the guardsmen unlatched the entryway’s locks. Beaming sunlight welcomed them to the outside, upon hopping into an open carriage and leaving the Aegean Safeguard. Vanille awed the overview of the city, seeing colorful stones and flowers dot the avenues and niches. Miles spotted the Knighthood Institution some ways away. The building was stilted in beautiful stoneware, grand arches holding it up and together. Slowly, the carriage sank under the rooftops.

 

The curving road leaned into a main thoroughfare, its hand leveling safely and evenly. The open carriage preceded the canopied one Lord Arthur and the Viceroy-Knights rode in. A pair of chauffeurs stopped to let everyone out, with Sirs Galahad and Lamorak helping the girls down. Nimue blushed floridly at Galahad’s secure handhold; Marina declined Lamorak’s offer, swatting his hand away. Miles was towed behind Vanille, who’d hopped out and waved to the awestruck passersby. “Hi!” she greeted some kids across the court.

            “Alright, now, behave yourselves.” Percival’s motherly call stung not only the Messenger Trio, but Miles, Galahad and Lamorak, as well. The boys’ backs straightened, but saw that the girls were being addressed instead. All three had fallen into a single file in front of their mentor. “I need the three of you to be on your best behavior. And Marina”—the raccoon girl huffed, bubbling her cheek—“when a man offers you a courtesy, do not turn him down. It could discourage him, and you don’t want to discourage a man’s most sacred honor, do you?”

            Marina muttered, “No, ma’am,” although her arms were still crossed.

            “All is well, ‘Robust’ one.” The lady-knight patted her head. The strokes made Marina flick her tail, finding it difficult to resist. “Remember: You are young, but you are growing. You are a budding flower that is learning how to blossom.”

            “Mrrgh…A’right. Whateve’ ya say, Milord.”

            “Good. Now, run along and play for a bit.”

            Marina’s ears perked up as a very confused look came over her face. “Huh?!”

            “Yay~!” Vanille and Nimue cheered in unison. “Yeah! C’mon, let’s go!” The thirteen-year-old linked arms with Galahad, who’d grabbed Lamorak at the very last, before starting off down the street. Vanille did the same with both Miles and Marina. “You too, Miles! ‘Kay?” But the fox boy was caught off guard a little. “Huh?—Whoa, me too? Heh heh…Okay!”

            As they dissipated into the thoroughfares, Arthur took up the “reigns” and gave his viceregal company a good-natured smile. “Why don’t we go around Fanelia and see what there is to see? You guys up for a little ‘meet-and-greet’?”

 

* * *

 

Asturia and Mercrusia arrived at the Castle Stronghold. Carriages bearing both Sister-Kingdoms’ emblems made everyone aware of them. Fanelian sentinels lined the hallway, crisscrossing their halberds to honor the guests. King Schezar and his three daughters admired the gesture; Queen Tiamara fanned herself to enliven her stately image, embarrassing her son the whole while. There to welcome them was Doyen Gustavio. The burly albatross gave a gentleman’s bow, leading the maids to curtsy and the guards to return to an attentive posture.

            “Please allow me to guide you all to the guest suites. I will also show you to the Dining Hall, where the coronation dinner will be held.” He went on, summoning some guards and maids over to follow. “Welcome. We are honored to host you, Lord Asturia and Lady Mercrusia, for such a wondrous event. It is a great privilege.”

            “It is an even greater honor, Doyen,” the Queen emphasized. “Oh, the news still shingles my fur! The Prince has been recovered—and ascended to lordship, no less! Ooh~! I simply cannot wait to see him!” But her own son didn’t seem all that enthusiastic.

            “Yes, it would do our hearts good to see him, Milord,” the King spoke up this time. “His Lordship’s parents were dear friends of ours, and to learn their son is alright…elated me.” A somber relief glazed the chinchilla’s eyes.

            Doyen Gustavio’s face also went somber. A small smile crooked his beak’s corner. “Yes, it did the same for me, as well. To a more skeptical extent, but…there’s no doubt now, my fellows.”

            First Princess Marceline bowed her head in remembrance. The Second and Third Princesses weren’t too clear on what he’d meant. But to see their father tear up so easily must’ve meant some gravity was present. The Mercrusian Prince eyed the albatross bowing his head, too.

            “I’d been waiting for his return. He bears both Elena and Uther’s likenesses, it’s uncanny…How did I overlook that?” He let his brows relax. “Ah, ‘tis in the past. I’ve corrected my mistake, and the boy’s proven his worth in heritage and in strength. I’ve no regrets; the crown is his, now. Though, I will teach him all that I know…” The Dining Hall opened up to everyone. The Third Princess, Mariette, was the first to give a good report: “So pretty!” She spun around and around, bedazzled by the glittering crystals and gold, the shimmering cloths and fresh fruit. Nighttime would magnify the opulence, the Queen thought, so she began to fan herself more fervidly.

            The Doyen folded his hands neatly and prayerfully. _“And I will show him to you, Mother Sunbird, so that he may reach for you in times of need.”_

 

* * *

 

Lord Percival indulged Arthur in answering questions about the Fanelian cityscape. In her explanation, she told him they were located in the Beaux Esprits, or upper division, of the city. Day-to-day activities carried on there. Most of the civilians dwelled on Fanelia’s upper level. But, when Arthur inquired about a “lower level,” there was noticeable hesitation on Percival’s part.

            Working as a devil’s advocate of sorts, Gawain explained it candidly: “There _is_ a lower level, Sire. It’s called the Purlieu. Long time ago, a skirmish invaded the western continent from the east. It grew into a war, and the enemy penetrated Fanelia’s Aegean Safeguard; that’s why part of it’s missing.” Neither of his Viceroy partners intervened. “Fanelia wasn’t always this high up, I hear. It was deep, where a lake previously rested. The Purlieu is what was left of the lakebed settlement…what was left for the Sovereignty to protect.” He let out a disheartened sigh. “But nobody goes down there anymore. It’s got nothin’ but refugees and orphans, now.”

            That made Arthur came to a full stop. “You mean, right underneath us…are slums?”

            “It ain’t like that exactly, Sire—?”

            “Then what is it? What is the Purlieu— _exactly?_ ”

            A soreness had entered the King’s voice. Percival and Lancelot gave each other a look, Percival’s was more disparaging than Lancelot’s.

            “Aye…From what I know, Sire, it is Fanelia’s original settlement. Those people down there have refused our assistance and said they won’t leave. So all we can do is keep them there, let them be, where both sides know they’re safe.” He grasped the King’s shoulder. “Occasionally, Sire, children do ask to come to the upper level. As far as we’ve known, there’s been no raucous activity. The Purlieu is gated and guarded, Sire. We only do what we can. We’ll do what is asked of us…by our sovereign, My Liege.”

            A pause hung in the air. Gawain’s sharp pats brought Arthur out of his downcast glare. He nodded once. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do about that.” And before another word was uttered, Arthur continued on. Gawain pinched the bridge of his nose lightly. An irritated “Aye…” escaped as he moved in after him. Percival gave Lancelot a half-smile before moving in after Gawain. Lancelot made no particular face, but he crossed his arms and descended the steps after all of them.

            Moments later, reaching the stairs’ landing, Arthur noticed a big space opening up to him. In it were revelers, shop patrons, and even the Sylvine Luminaria. A familiar-looking caravan had set up stage there; Arthur couldn’t help smiling.

            “Lord Arthur~!” the girls cried.

            Apparently, that cued everyone in the square to acknowledge him: “ _Sa’am bhaüle_ , our Lord Arthur!”

 

Bongo drums tapped out a happy beat. Tambourines and fiddle strums provided nearly tribal accents. Clinks from the women’s scarves and wraps were made by metal coins. They stomped, slid, and kicked their bare feet to the rhythm. Bystanders went into the revelry by coupling up and joining in, as well.

            Nimue had pulled Galahad into a jig, much to the Squire’s nervousness. Girlish and bashful, the thirteen-year-old showed off her summery getup to him, spinning and bobbing around. Sir Galahad, equally bashful—or even more so—complimented her before taking her hand. The girl’s face went red at the softness of the Squire’s hand; his grip was shy, but warm, and she found herself unable to refuse his offer to dance.

            Sir Lamorak acquired a sense of camaraderie in the foreign dancers, taking note of their leader’s Avian descent. He clapped to the young woman’s foot taps. She was growing fond of Lamorak’s hesitance, so she waved him closer to her. Side by side, they tapped out more dance moves. Luscious mahogany tresses crooked under her lavender head-wrap; it was Lamorak’s chance to show off his crest.

            Tambourines clinked even more happily at Vanille and Miles wheeling about in the middle. More children had joined them, including Riche—whom his caravan partners were looking for. Riche spotted Vanille first, and hearts popped all over the place. Weaving through the dancers’ path, he buzzed closer and closer, arms out wide, leaving a “heart trail.” But then, Miles came into view. Riche crashed into him, bouncing off and losing all sense of direction. Soon enough, he’d landed right next to Marina. “Wah?!” the raccoon girl screamed as she leapt onto the person closest to her.

            Seeing the bee child gather himself, the girl spewed out, “What the heck’s your damage, kiddo? I ain’t do noffin’ to ya, so why’d ya nearly ram into me, eh?!”

            Riche recovered. As a childish gesture, he adjusted his helmet and gave her a playful salute. “Heh heh, good lookin’, girly. Gotta fly~!” Then, he stick his tongue out at her before flying off.

            Marina flushed, steamed from the ears, and berated at him buzzing away from her. “Hey! You ain’t apologized or noffin’ to me, you—?”

            “Ahem.”

            A cough. It came out as if not to interrupt her tirade but to signal other plans. Marina blinked, turned wide sky-blues upward, and went cold upon heeding Lancelot’s fairly chilly glare. She let go, chuckling it off, and slid down comically. Then, unleashing a fierce aura, Marina drew her practice sword. “I, Marina the Robust, will se-…duce the perpi-…tater and bring him to justice!” Her captain’s declaration wobbled. She could feel her embarrassment rolling on top of her as she tried to finish. “U-Uh…Under the…um…?”

            Suddenly, Lancelot’s cape had fluttered upward: He had knelt down and placed a careful hand atop Marina’s, to motion her sword back into its lift, and showed her how it was done. To reiterate her: “I, Marina the Robust, will _subdue_ the _perpetrator_ and bring him to justice. Under the aegis of Lord Percival Ladriènne of the Kingdom of Fanelia, I will act out of sworn duty.”

            Marina was stunned for a moment. She held the position even after he’d stood up again. She blinked rapidly. His cape was so long and flowing, but his expression was not as cold as before.

            “A bit too longwinded for this instance. You should catch up to him, before he flies off too far.”

            Lancelot’s candor snapped her out of it. “Aye-aye, Milord!” And off she went.

            As well as Lancelot, in the opposite direction. Stepping off from the celebration, the 1st Viceroy came to a steel lattice patio. A middle-aged couple saw his approach and courteously bowed; the woman giggled, hands on her cheeks, while her husband waved him up. Almost like a doting grandmother, the older woman brought out a tray of snacks for Lancelot. The variety of pastries tugged at the Viceroy’s stomach-strings, though he inquired about any teas the couple may have carried. Delighted, the woman nodded.

            The caravan’s rhythm slowed for a moment. Soon into it, Percival was seen pulling Gawain into the middle. The Avian musicians took note of their key volunteers and began a vocal number. Even the fiddler sang.

            Which granted Percival an excuse to sing, as well. And she did. Gawain moved to the two-step she led. The Viceroy duo hopped and spun. They bumped ankles together. They clapped as they sang; the echidna had gained enough confidence to sing along with her. Her alto reverberated over his baritone. It made her smile—the biggest smile he’d ever seen from her. And that made Gawain’s heart warm and, oddly, fuzzy.

            Brave enough to shadow them, Nimue and Galahad joined the circle. Soon enough, Arthur had found the baker from when he’d first arrived and invited her to dance with him. Vanille and Miles twirled in and out of the adults’ paths. The music began to crescendo, more voices were lifted to the air. A euphoria bubbled from inside Arthur’s chest. All of a sudden, Arthur had passed his partner over to a young man—a teenaged squirrel like her.

            And before he could say anything, Lancelot found Arthur’s hand in the corner of his vision. The black hedgehog gave the King a confused, yet dismissive, look.

            “C’mon. You shouldn’t exclude yourself from all the fun. You promised me you wouldn’t, remember?” Arthur winked.

            The dismissive glare remained, but Lancelot accepted the King’s offer and was pulled into the revelry, too. After dropping a couple medallions, the middle-aged couple waved to his kindness.

            Concentric circles bobbed in reversed patterns. The drummer’s beats grew livelier once the King and 1st Viceroy returned to the square. Arthur let go so he could get to his next dance partner; Lancelot did the same. The ladies twirled on the inside as the males two-stepped on the outside. Adventurous pairs, like Percival and Gawain, made their waltz into an acrobatics act. Percival was lifted, swept off her feet, and craned along Gawain’s broadly gliding spin. Thinking they rivaled a pair of ballet dancers, for those few seconds, Arthur was astonished by what he saw. More reserved pairs, like Nimue and Galahad, moved in and out of a traditional waltz. The pink hedgehog couldn’t help giggling at the Squire’s occasion missteps. Thoroughly embarrassed by his two left feet, Galahad apologized throughout the dance. “No worries, sir. You’re learning—just like I am!” Her smile reassured him; his blush faded from a shade of humiliation to one of encouragement. Then, Vanille and Miles wove after them, happily waving. More children followed them in bouncing to the song’s final rhythms.

            The fiddler strung out a conclusive tune. The drummer and lead dancer came up to her side and led everyone in applause. Cheers and laughter rang within the square. The older couple applauded the participants in their youthfulness, glad to see them so happy and lively. After the dance, Vanille had ran over to the little girls who’d finished with her. All of them hopped up and down, giddy from excitement. Nimue curtsied to her dance partner, who’d been too nervous to part from her. She smiled at Galahad, showing him her signature coyness. Percival gave the two budding adults a smile, before finding herself bosom-to-chest with Gawain. He’d pulled her into a slightly possessive final pose; one that boiled both their faces. But as if to quell any insecurities Percival was facing, the seventeen-year-old gave her a quick nuzzle on the nose. Her whiskers frazzled, ambers brightened by the gesture. His redness, though, never truly fled. But his smile was sound, quiet, and almost proud. So she couldn’t help returning the gesture with her own nose. She let out a girlish giggle. Which, in one more turn, made Gawain’s heart grow a warm moss.

            Lamorak looked around, unsure where Galahad ended up. Miles happened to be doing the same for Vanille. But when their eyes fell upon the same path, Miles gawped while Lamorak’s could have burst into flames.

            The squirrel baker and Tillman’s daughter had somehow interlocked arms and hands. Unsure where their dance partners went, they blinked at each other and looked around, too.

            And, lo and behold, Arthur had found his way to Lancelot. Arms interlocked, hands interlaced. Too close for comfort. Arthur’s awkwardness matched Lancelot’s. Although, the Viceroy’s mortification was well-hidden. One of their hearts trembled. Arthur was the first one to let go. “Ah…whoops, sorry about that. Must’ve grabbed the wrong partner…?”

            Lancelot gave Arthur a deeply apologetic bow. After returning to his normal posture, he skirted away—as quickly as possible.

            Huge sweat drops flew from the King’s face. “Ah! Oh no, wait! Lancelot, don’t leave yet~!” His hands went from his head to flailing about.

            Much to Lancelot’s well-hidden mortification.

 

 

_I can’t believe it ended so awkwardly, though—Grah!_


	19. Maybe the afternoon will end better…?

Event Nineteen

 

“Ah, there you are….”

            Arthur rose to a staircase’s middle landing, catching sight of the 1st Viceroy. At the corridor’s top, the afternoon light highlighted the black hedgehog’s fur. His red streaks became white in that moment. Arthur’s heart fluttered; Lancelot was lifting his face to the sky. A wayward wind blew. It teased both their capes, but the Viceroy’s floated like a navy stream. Somehow the timing couldn’t have been any more perfect: The wind, the lighting, that angle, even the doves’ timing was impeccable.

            Hold on. Doves?!

 _“Läm-lihmmi maryük’sam,  
            _ _Feïd uïsah yun illyarose…  
_ _Bëhm’mid al’tahl pehm  
_ _Miryah gärten baïth.”_

            Arthur’s eyes widened in disbelief. Prickled from flesh to hair-tip, Arthur couldn’t believe his ears. The bumping in his chest wanted to know what that was, what was going on. Soothing, lightly rolled lyrics rocked through his ears, into his brain, and shook his very core. The blue hedgehog’s knees were less solid from before; his feet brought him further up the case.

            The newly instated King had no idea what was said. But Lancelot’s voice was absolutely beautiful.

            But before anything else could come out of his mouth, Sir Lancelot fled. His cape was all Arthur had left to catch. “Ah, hey!” the boy-king cried, kicking his joints back in gear. He crested the stairs. And immediately noticed Lancelot winding down the other side. The descending arch let him out into a small courtyard. Alongside him were terraced plots. Small trees bore berries, at which bluebirds picked at. Colorful wildflowers retained their wildness, even in that preplanned space. Even the tree next to Sonic seemed to greet him—a sharp contrast to his initial arrival to Gaea.

            Holding onto the balustrade, Arthur caught Lancelot’s glance back. It didn’t stick because the rest of him kept going. Was he suggesting to give chase? To Arthur, it sounded too mischievous or adventurous for Lancelot. He couldn’t say no, now; he was losing sight of him, and fast.

            Flower petals were snatched by Arthur’s catchup.

* * *

 

Sir Lancelot moved at a deceptively fast speed. He sauntered, moving in and out of haste. Somehow, it made Arthur uncertain of how quickly Lancelot was actually moving. But as town folk became more apparent, Arthur managed to piece it together. Obstacles, like wagons and playing children, weren’t anything to the Viceroy. Dexterous footwork kept him from bumping into anything. He fluidly dodged a lady-leopard balancing a breadbasket on her head, bowed to her, and kept moving. Arthur remained astounded as he traded an apple for a pair of silver rings. The mother-daughter sellers put them on and waved to him.

            The observation hadn’t even pulled the King’s attention for a full second. But the Viceroy had gone again. “Gah! He’s—He’s so fast! Where did he…?”

            This was a good time to make another observation: Fanelia’s Beaux Esprits wound. Undulating in height and length. Where there were stairs, there were also footbridges. Courtyards lied in various places in varying sizes. The largest of them seemed to hold statues, like the one he’d been brought to upon first arriving. He wondered how many there were, for a moment. He remembered the one with the man holding a pitcher. Were there any more like it, he wondered, and where were they?

            Arthur looked up to see a rooftop garden being tended to by an elderly lady-muskrat. She seemed to be talking to someone. Arthur moved further up the path and, just beyond her handrail, was Lancelot. “What in the—how’d he get up there?”

            While Arthur swapped his sights around for an answer, Lancelot nodded to the elderly rodent. “Your garden is gorgeous, milady Lila.”

            “Oh, such the gentleman, like you’ve always been, my good Sir. Please, take these. You’ve quite the green thumb”—she placed a healthy bulb into a pouch—“so I’m happy to share my yield with you.”

            Lancelot took it tenderly from her hands. “It would be a pleasure. I will raise this amaryllis myself. You have my gratitude,” he finished, graciously bending. “I bid you adieu. Take care, milady.”

            She waved to his back as he went across the skywalk. One of many stilted footbridges laced the Beaux Esprits. It took steely nerves and balance to traverse them, since there were no handles or barriers to prevent anyone’s fall. To compensate, they were restricted to those walking on foot, but most were at a carriage’s width. The one Lancelot strode across could only hold one person—a daring feat.

            Much to the Viceroy’s surprise, Arthur had discovered an entrance to a different one. And planned to catch him two roofs ahead. Nonetheless, the King was outsmarted: Lancelot crossed onto a footbridge just before the intersection, leading him down and away from him.

            Arthur flushed like a cheated child. “Hey! No fair—you knew that one was there!”

            Despite it, foot taps continued after reaching ground level.

 

King Arthur hopped down from the bridge, finally back on the ground. He let out a relieved huff. “Gotta remind myself not to do that again…”

            Suddenly, he found himself dodging Marina. She padded right by him, chasing after the bee that had crashed into her earlier. She was shouting unintelligible insults at the boy, he was sure. He ended up shaking his head in dismay, before going back into his search.

            The 1st Viceroy was nowhere in sight. With such fluid movements and reflexes, how could Arthur possibly keep up? Wooden signage had changed from fruitful hues to cooling pastels: Shop windows profiled canisters of balms and vials of herbs. One even showed soaps, speckled in brown and green. Twig pieces, leaf shreds? The avenue smelled of mints and spices. Like medicine but fresher, Arthur surmised.

            Another wide court opened up. It was so much like the first one he’d seen. People had gathered, crowding into a single circle. Children too short to see tugged at adult clothes to get a better view. A trio of lambs, upon seeing his approach, cheered and bounced. “Come see, Milord Arthur,” they coached. A little girl pulled him inward. “Come see, come see!”

            Closer to the front, clapping could be heard. Was someone performing? Oddly enough, Arthur found the circle’s outer edge. As well as another fountain: It featured a female hedgehog, this time. Native in a feather-crested sense, her tall moccasins and squared poncho denoted a very physical earthly respect. Roosting next to a potted plant atop her head was a family of orioles. She knelt before a female child, who reached up to receive an ear of corn from her. Her quills remained natural, tailed in two, and perkily spiked. Crooking from her headband were magnificent pheasant feathers; the stone likeness even captured their eyespots. A childlike countenance beheld the woman’s face.

            Just under her were free-flowing water whips. Escaping from the little girl’s vase, the fountain’s basin.

            Vintasse and Trammor finally caught their junior, Riche. The honeybee’s vest collar had been snatched up by the big crocodile. The oldest in the trio, Trammor glared at the boy; that reptilian fang gave him the jitters. Vintasse kept watch over Marina, who'd lost her energy after chasing him a while. Making sure she didn’t try anything mean, he’d taken her hand into a protective grasp. It made Marina’s cheek bubble as she pouted, and a tad pink as she remembered to accept his gallantry.

            Liquid tendrils kept swishing in fantastic patterns. Curving, twisting. All at Sir Lancelot’s command.

            Astounded even more, Arthur was admiring Lancelot’s Magic control all over again. He remembered being envious as he caught sight of a meek pleasance in Lancelot’s face. Learning everything he knew from the 1st Viceroy-Knight hadn’t come easily or quickly. As fast of a learner he was, Arthur had to admit Lancelot was leagues ahead. But no one said the lessons had to stop; the blue hedgehog wanted to do tricks like that with his Ensign, too. He was entranced by the rippling ribbons. Flicking fingers told where each water streamer to go. They spun and danced, the white bootees’ clever work perfecting the spectacle.

            Sir Lancelot’s contentment was of a Mona Lisa quality: remarkably slight, indistinguishable, and mysterious at best. A quiet loveliness. It kept Arthur guessing—a quality he liked about it.

            A fuzzy warmth coated his heart. There was an almost dreamy fascination in his gaze. Such impressive moves. Such tight control and skill. It must’ve taken years; the realization finally settled in Arthur’s brain.

            No amount of books or lectures could’ve taught the black hedgehog how to make water rings revolve around him. He was a nucleus for an atom’s electron shells. It was keeping his audience’s attention, well enough.

            _“Ferreïllya’khid pehm  
            __Miryah gärten baïth.”_

            A fairly showy wave broke the streams’ course and sent them skyward. They were supposed to coil up and burst into rain droplets. A shimmering shower would rain on the onlookers. The children would have a thirty-second rainy day, where the clean water could frazzle their coats and tickle their tongues.

            Most of that happened. What no one expected to happen was Arthur being blindsided by one of them.

 

_Someone’s singing next to me…?_

_What a soothing voice. It’s exotic, but in a calming way. I’ve never heard a voice like this._

_Man, that stings. What happened to my face? Feels like I got hit by a bunch of needles—a bunch of really tiny needles._

_…I thought I was in the plaza, where Lancelot was performing. I didn’t know he had it in him. I also had no idea how fast it was really going. That hurt more than I thought it would!_

_I’m sure he didn’t mean to. Now, there’s a small container next to my head. It smells minty. So does my forehead._

_There is also a Lancelot looking down at me. My head’s resting on his thigh; how long was I out for? That water hit me like a cactus and knocked me out?!_

_Wow. I had no idea. Water’s quite the force of nature, huh? I don’t know whether I should be even more unnerved by it, now._

_Lancelot’s eyes are on me. What face is he making? There’s a tree hanging over us…._

 

 

_Most certainly weirder…but much better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Reference: Insert song features an abridged "Gaean" version of "Neglected Garden" (The Secret World of Arrietty). My Gaean translation roughly borrows from the song's actual lyrics.


	20. Into the night...Into the Witches' Brew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Brief but intense depictions of violence/gore, death with hints of vore, and nudity/sexual suggestion ahead.
> 
> CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Event Twenty

 

 

Gilded streamlets resembled veins. A massive shadowy structure rose over the northern mounts. The sunset colors gave it an even more menacing aura. It crept over Valris Sal’chiara, an Avian settlement predominantly governed by monks and priests. The mountains it resided in were high enough to rival Earth’s Mt. Kilimanjaro. Abbots had been meditating when they heard the dull roar of engines. Some stepped onto their verandas to see the hulking misshapen mass.

            “Floatation Rock has entered cooling. Airship velocity stabilizing. Estimated travel duration: 120 _miets_ ,” a female navigator relayed.

            From under a deepening canopy, a feral eye flashed open. The other was plated by worn-and-torn metal; the cauterized flesh of a maltreated wound had glazed around it. A rugged glove smoothed the badger’s beard. Scattered papers uncovered regional maps that had been pieced together by the lady navigator. Tiered monitors were tended to by black-garbed soldiers. The grand view before him showed the ancient monasteries and highly decorative murals. Off to the side, one depicted a monk meditating. Brandishing its wings behind him was a dragon that vaguely resembled the Earth Dragon, Valborga.

            Somehow, seeing it made the one-eyed badger grin. “How do you think the ‘Most Powerful’ would fair in these conditions, Lhugo?”

            The navigator, a tall and lithe brown rabbit, took a scope off her left eye. Like a monocle, she pocketed it into her breast pocket. “Just like any other soldier infiltrating enemy territory. Skilled in espionage, ready to kill—and leave no trace. I suspect our mission will end within the last 30 _miets_ _prior_ to our arrival.” She folded her hands at her back. “She’s truly a monster, Iron General.”

            The badger huffed. A soreness had entered his eyebrows’ dip. “They’re all monsters, Lhugo….”

 

Shamarazad Carmen awaited. Clad in black-gold armor and strapped to her pilot seat, she awaited in darkness. A soft screech rumbled underneath her. She nodded, before flipping down her grille. It came in a strange shape, as if to mimic a bull’s skull, but it was as black as her armor. She brought out her weapon. Enchanted energy transmuted the pole into a massive battleax. After bringing the dual-heads down to balance across her shoulders, she straightened her back. Her footholds tightened. An almost proud air fumigated around her.

            “The Hunt begins now. Let’s go! Pallastheia!”

            A dragon roar shuddered through the metallic room. A lift door was opening; slivers of golden light heralded their exit. The monstrous reptile charged out, dropped down to gather speed, and flared its spanning wings to gain leverage. All the while, Shamarazad moved with it. Her helm flickered in the evening light.

            _The General finished with a sigh, “…Every single one of ‘em.”_

            Beyond the eye slits, the echidna’s eyes narrowed. “That Diamond Hide is mine.” But the dragon she was riding seemed to object, letting out another low screech. “Give no mind to your pointless worrying, Pallas. She will be tough, I’ll give her that…but she’s mine, even if her mate tries to help her. After she’s out, he’ll be easy picking.” The dragon gave no response. “Focus on the mission. I need you, Pallas.”

            But only another despairing moan came just before passing under a ridge.

* * *

 

A piercing shriek alerted Guinevere’s opponents to her arrival. As she sailed right over them, the desert forces of Basram gawked. A backwind whipped off the captain’s headscarf. His jadeite eyes flashed. “Deploy the Melefs! Protect the Mollusk Dragon—let her nowhere near him! After her!”

            Guinevere cackled. “Your surroundings are your enemy, fools…! Persephia, would you be a dear?”

            Guinevere’s Draconian partner erected a pair of pauldron-shaped scales, halting her in midflight. Within them, prismatic insect-like wings spiraled out. The dragon turned to face the incoming Basram Melefs. The sunset colors made the dragon more menacing. Flashing oranges, pinks, and indigo temporarily blinded the men below. The dragon’s scales were of varying sizes. They were shaped like rose petals, and their outer trimmings glittered much like those wings. Now, with great strength, a gust forced the sand to crest outward. Salmon pebbles scratched the machines’ armor. The sandy rest flooded the forward’s cockpits. Merciless sand became a torrent. And Guinevere cackled at them as they drowned in it.

            By the wind-whip’s end, a rippling crater had appeared under her.

            From his binoculars, the coyote captain gasped. “Oh my—?!”

            “Ha ha ha!” Guinevere screeched. “Marvelous! Now, my precious, let’s go…We’re going sand-fishing!”

            Her deranged laughter left the captain mortified. Another coyote underling ran up to receive his orders. “We won’t make it there in time…so relay a message for me.” His jade eyes glistened with worry. “It’s going to Fanelia.”

* * *

 

Deep beneath the Valris Sal’chiara settlement was a system of caves and tunnels. Only the abbots knew how to navigate it; without one, travelers were doomed to die. Lost spirits haunt pockets of it, fables said; a much broader fact told about its origins. The Father Earthmover, Phelfideüs, was said to be so large that, after he molded Gaia and laid to rest, his remains became the Valris Mountains. His Draconian form petrified over time. If one could seize a heaven’s eye view, they would see it—his Dragonbody—fully intact. Multiple hollows once held organs, the tunnels previously his blood vessels. The deeper areas were coated in red. They led to the Earthblood Cavity—the hardest cavern to reach, or even find—where the Father’s heart had been.

            It was also where the Adamantine Dragon, Diamant, nested. Her angry roar rumbled throughout the cavity. Traces of diamond popped all over the place. A new coinage for the cavity’s rubicund appearance came about after her arrival: It was her “Blood Diamond Lair”—shown to very few trusted Earthborn. And even fewer who’d found it.

            Assuming one of them had been on the mural she’d passed, Shamarazad snorted. “It is as the monks described. Rich ruby color…diamond-hardness…but they’re really a collection of Drag-Energists, eh?” With relative—and disheartening—ease, she pried a shard out of the wall behind her. Another roar was let out by Diamant. “So this was your precious grandfather? He’s but a crystallize carcass, now.” Her rudeness forced Diamant to charge at her. Shamarazad readied her quarterstaff. She tossed the red Energist to her partner, who’d cowered back. “You needn’t fear her, Pallas. She’s just a lonely bitter crone.” The Draconian in question snapped her jaws around the stone.

            After a moment’s notice, Shamarazad saw that the Adamantine Dragon’s jaws were about to clamp down on her. But they became jammed.

            “Summa Metallon, _Mutilare_.”

            Heavy, bladed heads sliced into the dragoness’s roof and split her tongue into clean halves. Blood spurted out. Flooding after it came a hideous shriek. The sound rattled through the chamber.

            “Aduro Tabar, Maim.”

            Yet there was no emotion beyond the echidna’s visor.

* * *

 

A shadow rushed through the Shrouded Forest’s twilight. Ghostly veils wafted before being lost to the wind. Branches shivered. Leaves flurried as it flew past.

            “Biter-Is, _Ligaveris_.”

            Suddenly, in close pursuit, another shadow came. It froze the drifting leaves.

            “Hauteclaire, Bind!”

            Entire tree boughs frosted over. Snowy tendrils clamored toward the fleeing Nixie Dragon, Isis. Shrouded Forest would freeze over soon, if the ever-persistent Linde kept nipping after her. Swift and elusive like the darkness she personified, Isis wove out an invisible escape. Linde kept on by dragon-back. The sole descendant to Asturia’s God of Protection himself, Linde’s partner had somehow inherited a genocidal bloodlust alongside her comrade-in-arms. The frosted dragon raked the treetops as she flew. A piercing screech alarmed the nestled-in wildlife.

            “Come now, Isis. Why are you in such a fluff to flee? You know you’ve no escape…!”

            Suddenly, an overhanging limb sharpened into an ice pillar. It was too late for Isis to dodge, so she was impaled. Though the thrust entered from the back and out her chest, her wraithlike mail granted the attack no blood. Shortly after the fact, Linde summoned more.

            “You’re creating an unnecessary hassle on my end, dear. Why don’t you stop playing phantom and face me?” She lifted her goat-shaped helm’s grille. Calculating lenses allowed Linde to peer into the darkness. The chilled brume brightened the forest’s umbrage. Isis’s shape was a bit easier to catch, despite her amorphous form.

            Obviously, Bastet’s mother.

            “You’re the mother to the Fire Fairy’s partner…Your “Phantom Cloak” is what inspired my boss to develop our own Stealth Cloaks. We may not be able to become intangible, but we can mimic your invisibility.” She slid her grille back down. “Even though, I don’t need to be invisible in order to take you out.” Her smirk grew a bit. “Erismene, bank right!”

            The Draconian wail initiated a battle strategy. Linde was bound to make nightfall Isis’s enemy. _“Because the enemy of my enemy…is my friend.”_

* * *

 

Shamarazad swung her ax in balanced motions. Pallastheia could only hold back and watch her master as she removed one of Diamant’s forelimbs. With the ease of a scythe, she had exploited the Adamantine Dragon’s huge weak spot: The underbelly. It also included her two front limbs, hardy but weaker in comparison to her hinds. Spiky diamond scales threatened to impale the echidna. She charged, and missed, and charged, and even almost hit Pallastheia. The Eon Dragon’s cowardice was unsightly to Shamarazad.

            But how did she expect her to slaughter her own flesh and blood?

            “She is no threat to you, Pallas! Now, charge her! Charge her and finish her!”

            But the dragon’s fear had already set in. Her head swayed, as if to refuse. It was pallid. Lacking in self-confidence. As her master coached her in the battle’s midst, she could feel Shamarazad’s ire flaring. Diamant had already lost herself in her rage. It was out of duty that she protected her Blood Diamond Lair. It was also an ode to her grandfather’s legacy, as his oldest grandchild. Her roar seared off more of the dragon’s bravery.

            _“Do not defy me, child!”_ it stabbed itself into Pallastheia’s conscience.

            A tail swipe sent the fighter into a wall. By a narrowest reflex was Shamarazad able to parry Diamant’s frontal charge. Her battleax had transformed into a falchion blade, to catch her adversary’s forehead horn. Over her resistance, “Pallas! Do it! Charge her, right now!”

            Under the older dragon’s incensed snarls, Pallastheia retreated to a nearly forgotten place in her mind. Her memories gave her a cozy feeling. The blood diamonds showed her someone she’d never met. _“Do not defy me, child!”_ the command came once more—oddly, in the voice of a woman. The dragon shivered. If she could spring tears, she would have by now.

            “She is _not_ your mother, Pallas! Do not fear her!”

            Diamant’s horn closed in on the echidna’s face.

            “Do not fear her, Pallas! Do not fear her—Trust _me!_ ”

            Finally, something in the Eon Dragon’s memories shattered. The woman’s face cracked like glass.

            A mournful wail shook the Earthblood Cavity. Then came blood.

 

* * *

 

The airship’s navigator, Lhugo, tapped her pocket-watch’s face. Curved around her finger was a burnished claw-ring. It symbolized not only her allegiance to the Iron General, but also her national alignment.

            “Ma’am,” a soldier called to her, “three signal flares have been spotted. Each of the Dragon Slayers has made affirmative signals; they’re all green, Ma’am.”

            The lady-rabbit nodded. Elegantly, she swung her back to face her commander. Her monocle flickered while her intense hazel focused on the decorated man. “Just as I predicted. Shall we proceed with retrieval…?”

            The last twinkles of sundown were caught in the aging badger’s single eye. A sneaky huff passed through his lips.

            “Iron General, Zodia Quu?”

            He growled, “Well, I’ll be damned. Those witches dun nabbed us three dragons…‘specially that echidna-girl. That Diamond Hide’s finally been claimed, eh?” He let out a husky chuckle. “Isis and her Phantom Cloak…and Kyrgue, with his cache of enriched pearls. What’s left of Gaea’s treasures, I say?” He gave Lhugo a permissive wave. “Go ahead. Let’s bring back the Emperor’s…‘girls’.”

 

* * *

 

Metallic. Like an ox’s. Diamant was a huge adversary. Shamarazad stood a chance after all, it seemed. Still, she’d be nothing without her Draconian partner. As reluctant as she’d been, Pallastheia pulled through for her. And now, Diamant’s hide had been claimed. It’d be impossible to skin, so the echidna began to carve out her entrails. Disemboweling her from underneath.

            Amidst it, Pallastheia said nothing. She didn’t seem present to the moment.

            More unsettling myths spoke of “hollowing out” rituals involving Draconians to invoke their forgotten powers. It came with sharp-tongued condemnation, though, especially from religious figures. Since it involved the consumption of their organs, it was considered taboo—even sinful—to most Earthborn.

            Shamarazad was an exception. In fact, Diamant’s heart was what she feasted on first. The rest was left in the cavern.

            Pallastheia watched the armored woman enthuse in her meal. The most lively she’d seen in a while. Ruby liquid trickled over her chest, down her strong abdomen, and crept over them. An ecstasy had entered her: Lilac irises lolled into her upper lids. What was left of the dragon’s heart had squeezed between her fingers. Clawed gloves obliterated it before its last beat. A sigil on her left bicep began to glow.

            The used signal flare rolled over to the Eon Dragon. An emptiness had taken over her draconic eyes. Diamant’s carcass was too heavy for one person to lift, even for her master. So its dying warmth was hers to bear.

* * *

 

“Pearls! Pearls—everywhere! Wah ha ha hah!” Guinevere shrieked to the night sky.

            The Mollusk Dragon, Kyrgue had been overtaken, despite his field advantage. Enriched pebbles—which were Kyrgue’s pearls—were abundant in the sands of Hesroma Sound. Irregular in shape, the rocks varied in size and had undeniable valuable. Most came in salmon’s flesh, but exceedingly rare navy blues were horded by the Draconian himself. A king’s cache of riches was needed to barter such pearls because he seldom made them himself.

But now, the salmon and navy pearls were Guinevere’s to seize.

The Mollusk Dragon’s body laid in dismemberment: his tail, wings, forelimbs, and horns had been burned from the inside out. His attempts to flee to the Mausolea of Viole were all for naught. His blood further stained the grainy soils.

It was purple. Bubbling, and hissing, before darkening.

Guinevere scraped up the pearls and reveled in them. Greedily, she groaned, “Mine…They’re all mine, now!” Her maniacal cackling went in chorus with Persephia’s vengeful trills. The mostly serpentine dragon bore no limbs, aside from the wings sprouting from different points along her spine. Her teeth snapped up the Drag-Energist Guinevere had tossed to her.

“Eat up, my pretty! You’ve earned your meal—as did I, my loot! Thieving from a dragon can be costly…if you don’t know what you’re doing. More so, if your eye’s not on the prize! What pretty pearls—but even more, such gorgeous blood! Burn, rot, putrefy the Sound! It’s poisonous now, you know?” Her stag-shaped helmet rested atop a mound of Kyrgue’s pearls.

Another insane cackling boomed over the nighttime desert. The stars twinkled; were they crying?

* * *

 

“Mission success. Let’s head back to the Chafaris.” Linde snorted. Her Draconian partner, the Brume Dragon, cawed in victory. In its clutches was a net. It was barbed, its frozen tips biting into Isis’s solidified flesh. She shivered there, too exhausted to escape. Her eyes flashed. Dimly blinking red lights signaled danger on her end. The cold was a nightmare for her, since she lacked mammalian physiology.

            Linde noticed a cacophony howling and crowing underneath them. “Urrk, won’t they just shut up? It’s not like I’m stealing any food or something. Ugh…I feel like freezing them.” Erismene nodded vigorously. “Ha! Then show them, will you?”

            A wintry blast was thrown into Shrouded Forest. Nestlings cowered under their parents’ wings. Fawns bounded away, beside their mothers and fathers. Frogs jumped away into the river’s crest and further downstream. Leaves went stiff. Upper tree boughs became frozen. Willow vines turned into icy catkins.

            The lady-swallow swiped a blade across one. It was brittle enough to fall in that single slash. It frightened the fauna below. Linde laughed. “The Chafaris is coming. Let’s head out, Eris. And deliver our prize to His Imperial Eminence.”

            Erismene cawed, taking herself and her master higher into the night.

 

* * *

 

“The Iron General has returned in the Chafaris from the Dragonhunts, Your Eminence. Thus, returning the Dragon Slayers, as well.”

            A coldness wafted around the room. Frigid air felt dank; evil spirits could revel in it. Will-o-wisps served as dark candles in the mostly lightless room. Grand veils draped around a circular altar. Dark mythril gleamed in the twilight’s disappearance. Nothing blew in or out. The dark aura of the Emperor moved those curtains.

            The Slayers’ Draconian partners preceded them in appearance: Linde’s dragon, Erismene, hauled a feeble Isis up to the man’s footholds. Another man standing at his right grinned eagerly.

            Flickering eyes struggled to glance the man’s features. It wasn’t the darkness, but her own weakness hindering her. “Ho ho, such a fine specimen—the only other to exist in over a millennium, Eminence!” The second man’s voice was obnoxious and obsequious. It grated the Nixie Dragon’s nerves. Her head lowered in total defeat. “I’ll get to work on her right away, Your Imperial Eminence!” At a wave of the Emperor’s hand, the somewhat sniveling man—an albino echidna—threw back his cloak and summoned a throng of soldiers. “Get her to my laboratory, on the double, you miserable lot! I need that Phantom Cloak ready for experimentation immediately!”

            Linde stood beside Erismene. Crossing her arms, she smirked. Ever so cool and level-headed, she ignored the begging look on the Nixie Dragon’s face. _“Let the daughter survive, and skin the mother alive,”_ she thought to herself, admiring the idea. _“Humph, that’s the order of things, after all.”_

            “Linde Chruzna.”

            The lady-swallow pulled herself into a taut salute. Short heels clacked dutifully at her straightening. Her fist thumped her chest as the other went against her back. In a nighttime shade of ice-blue, her bandeau-style brassiere was held together by scalloped breastplates, a bright blue orb centering itself in her cleavage. A similar pattern fell over her hips and thighs, as well as shin guards and armlets. Chainmail kept the guards linked. As if to mimic a long-lost Draconian’s pelt, Linde’s armor made her look like a seafarer. Her heritage lied elsewhere, obviously. Her billy skull helm gave off a dark glimmer, much akin to her armor.

            “See to it that Strategos Damocles follows through with his promise. Make sure the Phantom Cloak is removed tenderly, carefully, from the Nixie’s flesh.” The deeply regal voice curled about in a ghostly rasp. “I want no errors, my wiliest dear. I’m in no mood for disappointment.”

            Her visor hid her eagerness. “In trussed duty, will do, Master.”

            “Shamarazad Carmen.”

            As Linde departed, Shamarazad approached the altar. “Master.” She fell to a knightly kneel before the Emperor. Her bull’s helm gave a more sulfuric sheen. The rest of her attire seamed together below it: Torques at her neck, forearms, and calves; thinner bands wrapped around her upper arms. A more pliable top kept the echidna’s bust in line. Her undershorts had frayed hems—from the battle with the Adamantine Dragon. Sinister claws pointed her fingertips, as they did her wedge-soled boots. Reminiscent to a berserker’s armor, spikes shot out of her pauldrons and shin guards, taller crooks at the knees. Her quarterstaff stood beside her.

            She lowered her head. “I’ve come bearing a most coveted gift, Your Eminence. Behold: The Adamantine Dragon, Diamant’s Diamond Hide.”

            At her wave, her partner came hobbling in. To it, neither Shamarazad nor the Emperor spoke. Attached to her back was her “mother’s” rocky pelt. Diamonds stuck out every which way on her. They glittered, even with a life force to sustain them no longer. Enticed by the sparkles, Guinevere came trotting out behind them. She smoothed her fingers over them, cooing dreamily at her tiny reflections.

            “Most coveted indeed, my strongest dear. And yet, Pallastheia seems fatigued…heartbroken, more so.” The Emperor saw that the brave light in her gaze had gone. “Let her rest, my dear. You alongside, of course.”

            “You have my trussed gratitude, my Master.” At Pallastheia’s wistful hiss, Shamarazad took up her reigns and led her out.

            Constellations crowded the rearward rose window. With the Mystic Moon’s light coming in, the wispy drapes bore a more indigo hue. Perhaps with hints of lavender, or even burgundy? Oddly, hunter and ochre had entered the silks, as well. Billowing, yet there was no wind.

            “My loveliest dear…Guinevere Dahlia.”

            The Emperor’s aura was dark as pitch.

            “Disarm.”

            Tiny clinks of black-rose gold sounded across the chamber. The triangular breastplate was the first to drop; along with it fell the string-tie halter. Limb guards were unbuckled from her wing shoulders, forearms, and calves. Heavier clanks signaled their drop. Strappy high heels carried the bat-girl closer to the regal man. Nothing except those heels and a black bikini bottom remained. Clawed gloves of her own covered her breasts.

            There were no words for a moment. A sigil above Guinevere’s cleavage burned in the moonlight. A blush had taken over her face.

            The Emperor’s aura was warm. And getting warmer still.

            “Now. Disrobe. Completely.”

            Doing so, Guinevere dropped her gloves; then, her heels. Lastly, her thong. And crawled closer to the man. The drapes fluttered to his rise. He welcomed her into his dimly lit haven. The veils twisted shut behind her. The man’s hands had ensnared her hips, drawn her closer, and held her there. A passionate sigh escaped from her. Her wings crumpled downward.

            “Come, my loveliest. Come into my darkness….”

            The Emperor’s aura was so strong. But Guinevere couldn’t resist. A teardrop escaped.

            _“…But…you aren’t him.”_

 

_Stirring spoons, under the moon, to crooning loons…_


	21. Tonight’s my big night…Say hello to King Arthur!

Event Twenty-One

 

Sundown’s warm glow slowed the activities of the Fanelian Kingdom’s Beaux Esprits. Summertime stars peeked out, but were held back by motherly cloud wisps. The Mystic Moon rose over the gilding sky. A bright blue orb as it hovered over the horizon. In its light, the Tempest Dragon’s silhouette could be seen by the watchmen guarding Fanelia’s western wall, the Cyclades Rampart. A happy twittering sounded over the city, like baby piano notes. A young guardsman, a platinum-blond mink, shut his eyes to listen. Gaea’s other moons had appeared, as well: A peppery Atzü’lu and a fatherly cinnamon Phelfis skated across the sky.

            Summer reigned. Prairielands outside of Fanelia were combed by warm winds. Farmers and shepherds applauded the orange moon’s debut. It was a good sign; a break in the heatwaves was soon to come, as early as the next couple mornings. Gaean mythos told of the season’s beginnings: The Father Earthmover, Phelfideüs—after whom the orange moon was named—oversaw the dominion duels between Atzü’lumai the Ingle and Esharlæsöl the Pleasance. The Demigoddess of Fire and Demigod of Wind dueled for fall, battling for further influence on the Earthwork. Although, chronologically, Atzü’lumai was the eldest out of the Demi-Pantheon, her second-youngest brother always loved battling with her, so she’d always accept his writs of challenge. Sometimes Esharlæsol won, which ushered in an early autumn. The younger sister, Khümrolia the Conduit, used Marble Maple trees to break stalemates between them. While ruby indicated the Ingle’s victory and amber the Pleasance’s, they also yielded a warm autumn and a good harvest, respectively. On special occasions, the Conduit would ask Asärlak the Jet—the youngest and Water Demigod—for his input; early frost on either colored leaves denoted it. Whenever the Jet’s neutrality was apparent, Khümrolia teased her older siblings by leaving the Marble Maples’ color changes incomplete.

            This year, the Ingle and Pleasance were surely having words with the Conduit. Vanille and Marina were reading a Marble Maple in Gladiolus Stadium. At the sight of half-changed leaves, the rabbit girl giggled. Marina merely scratched the back of her head.

* * *

 

“Welcome, esteemed guests!” Gustavio’s voice rang strongly across the Dining Hall. Loyally at his side was Lamorak Alcharia. “We truly appreciate your reception and presence in this event. For 32 years, we’ve gone without a proper sovereign. And now, as I stand before you today, I am proud to announce the ascension of our young Lord, son of Mother Elena Aura IV and Father Uther Pendragon. Fanelia’s winds have glided us along the path of sanctum and peace. I have protected her people, raised and taught her young, and honored her ancestry under the aegis and seal of Father Uther. A dearest friend to me, to us all, I…have also been blessed to see the day where I could finally advise his only child.”

            Asturia’s First Princess, Marceline, held onto her father’s hand. A bit shorter, King Schezar nodded.

            “It is my deepest honor to bequeath the Throne to him. For it is his birthright. May it also be his home, his pride and comfort, in sword, in shield…and in staff.” The avian elder’s gold medallions clinked as he moved aside. In tandem, so did Lamorak. “I, Doyen Gustavio Macchus, am humbled to present”—He showed a hand to the double doors—“His Splendent Majesty, King Arthur Dalian of Our Wondrous Kingdom!”

            The entire room went into applause. Two guards pulled the doors from the other side, at Lancelot’s signal. Lauds of “Welcome, King Arthur” and “Bless you, King Arthur” assailed him. Entering the space, Arthur couldn’t help grinning. At his sides were Viceroys Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival. Their cape colors were careful not to overpower Arthur’s brilliant crimson; Lancelot’s fluttered in a contemplative navy, while Percival’s showed a more claret shade and Gawain’s a mossy hunter. Noblewomen waved their handkerchiefs at them. A bit overwhelmed, Arthur’s smile crooked nervously. Crystals glittered from above. Some caught his eye, as he made his way to the head table. Slightly elevated than the rest, it wasn’t too different from the weeks before. It made him smile.

            A speech preluded the feast. At Arthur’s command, platters and platters came in. At the head of each line were the Sylvine Luminaria. Nimue was garbed in adorable dessert-like colors, from her blueberry petticoat to peppermint-blue silks. Vanille and Marina weren’t so far behind, each in orange-cream frills and spearmint thatch, respectively. Happily, the girls helped serve everyone. The head table, where the King and his closest subordinates were, were the lasts to be served. Specifically choreographed, so that the process was fluid, without congestion, and emphasized putting the guests first. Arthur watched it unfold, smiling all the while. Steamy meats and vegetables made his mouth water; but a dutiful pat on his hand reminded him that he needed to say grace. Blinking rapidly, but caught mid-blink, it was Lancelot who stood and asked everyone to join hands. After doing so, an airy chant followed. In Arthur’s mind, it sounded like a cross between a prayer and a song. Lilting words blended together, stanzas were hard to catch. And before he knew it, it was over and everyone finished with a word akin to “Amen.” 

* * *

 

 

The coronation ball followed. Ball gowns swished and caroused alongside gentlemen’s breeches. Florid pastels and seasonal textures clashed in befitting complements. Corsages pulled the promenade-like dance together even more. In the midst of that sea of dancers, Arthur noticed that only the ladies wore corsages. The males were tasked to place a flower of their fancy on the head or hand of the lady of equal fancy. Even Mercrusian Prince Rowland had followed through, as well; it was a widely commonplace custom, it seemed. A bit more aloof than bashful, he handed a young lady a viscaria stem. Though her age and height differed vastly from his, she obliged him. After a giggle and a curtsy, she allowed him to guide her to the floor.

            Off from the other side, his mother cooed sweetly. Then, much to her surprise, a yellow lily came into view. She became giddy after seeing the Asturian King behind it. She couldn’t deny his handsomeness. Upon overcoming tragic circumstances they both shared, their friendship was slowly blossoming into something more. With that, King Schezar had a feeling his daughters were going to have a brother soon.

            At another end of the room, Miles fidgeted. His simple daisy wasn’t all that impressive. He was also insecure about his two left feet: All the night’s ladies were fair and beautiful. Even the youngest of them were darling—especially Asturia’s Third Princess. Somehow, she’d taken a liking to him and Vanille. The two girls went around to different tables just to collect flowers. Vanille had asked Gawain if she and the Princess could go to the garden to pick more, but he couldn’t allow it without her father’s permission. So they did. Scampering across the hall, the girls spotted Miles waving after some mild nervousness; they waved back, giggling cutely.

            To it, his smile crooked. Boyishly shy, he lowered his eyes and heaved a hopeless sigh.

            A cascade of dark-fuchsia and silvery beads came down next to him. Then, a gentle hand hugged his shoulder. Percival smiled at him. “Do not despair, young Miles. In the language of flowers, the daisy represents innocence and loyal beauty.” Her other hand helped guide the blossom to his chest. “Hold tight, but let go of your fear. I know it can be nerve-wracking for a boy to ask the hand of a girl—in anything.” She giggled. “But the reverence and respect she’ll give you for your courage will echo volumes.”

            Miles’s eyes glittered with hope.

            “Read the flower you’ve chosen, Miles. Then, read the girl you wish to give it to. How she translates it matters, because your daisy is what you see in her—that is, innocence and loyal beauty.”

            Her smile softened. To it, Miles blinked. “I’m a bit lost, Milord, but…I’ll do my best!”

            A tinge of pink tickled the Viceroy’s cheeks. “Good on you, Miles. Be not dismayed; be hopeful. Because a lady will not forget what a man sees in her.”

            Percival’s heels clacked against the marble, her tail snaking as her hips swayed a bit. Miles was left to blink—at her departure, then his daisy, and around the ballroom. The thought of Vanille and Princess Mariette’s reactions to his daisy made him fidget more than before. Who would respond better to his gift? The confusion made his ears flick, his tails swish, and his face redden. _“Gah,”_ his mind cried.

            Off and away from him, Vanille and her new friend had returned to Gawain’s side. This time, the Princess’s father came in tow. Rich lilacs mingled with deeper indigos. Solid but stately jewelry made the Asturian King’s regality apparent. Catching his approach made Gawain bow deeply.

            “Greetings, Viceroy,” King Schezar returned it kindly. Little Mariette trotted over to her father and clung to his robes. Combing his fingers through her hair, “My little Mariette has taken an interest in your gardens. A suggestion made by this darling young lady, methinks.”

            To his gentle smile, Gawain bowed his head in agreement. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Vanille’s found a new playmate in her, I’d agree.”

            “I’ll allow her time in your gardens, if you’d be so kind as to propose a safeguard.”

            “Aye, for both of them, without a doubt. Vanille”—Gawain knelt in front of the rabbit girl—“show the Princess to the Garden Pleasance. You’re to stay with her till she’d summoned back by her father. Alright?”

            “Yes, Viceroy!” Vanille grinned.

            “Be sure not to trouble your safeguard, either.” He got to his feet and showed his deep respect once more. “If I may, I’ll assign this task to the underling of Sir Lancelot—Sir Galahad Benedict.” The boy in question was within range when he heard his name. Meeting the higher-up’s gaze, Galahad trotted over. “Lad, you’ve an assignment: We need you to watch over Vanille and Asturia’s Third Princess for a bit in the Garden Pleasance. No worries, we’ll send for their return after a while.”

            Galahad blinked: He’d been blindsided by the request. Even more so, since it came from the monarch of the country he hailed from. Flustered a bit, he struck a dutiful salute. “Y-Yes, of course! I will do what is asked of me—and fulfill it to the best of my ability! Your Majesties!” Galahad dipped like a wooden toy to both Mariette and Schezar.

            Gawain wondered about the white hedgehog’s stiffness. Setting it aside, he waved them off. “Alright, off with ya! You’re on assignment, now.”

            “Yes, sir!”

            “C’mon, Mister Galahad!” Vanille tugged with one hand while leading the giggling Princess Mariette with the other. “We’re going to the Pleasance! Wanna make flower crowns with us?”

            Feeling unsure, Galahad hummed.

            “You know how to make flower crowns?” little Mariette inquired, excitement tingeing her voice.

            “Sure do! I can teach you, too, Princess! We’ve got all kinds of flowers—like roses, and daffodils, and marigolds, and….”

            The echidna watched them go alongside Asturia’s king. Another bow went to the chinchilla as he made his way elsewhere. He shook his head a little. “I guess I should let Lancelot know where his squire’s gone…?” Carefully, he uncorked a tin flask and took a sip from it.

            “Don’t worry. It’s already done.”

            Lord Percival slowly took the king’s previous place beside Gawain. Wiping his mouth, he took immediate notice of her increased reticence. Her eyes were rich topaz disks in the moonlight, laced with dread. Her tuxedo ensemble stretched further out in mimicry of a ball gown. Her skirts halved below her knees, where fanciful white boots slimmed her calves. Over them was a peplum overskirt, but the fantastic bow at the base of her tail seemed reminiscent to a _bishōjo_ warrior from “Sonic’s” earlier years. Even down to her jacket’s cuffs, linked in gold; tiny roses embellished the buttons. Her Ensign must’ve shortened her cape to shoulder blade-length. The smaller Fanelian crest’s gilt threads glittered in the moonlight, as well.

            An air of reluctance filled the space between the two Viceroys. Until Gawain decided to put down his flask for a moment.

            “You seem leery, Percival, of King Asturia. You’ve not spoken to him, in neither greeting nor gratitude. It’s unlike you….”

            “Yes, I am aware. It’s just that…” Percival turned toward the bay windows at her back. Stepping over to them silently told Gawain to follow. “In my younger years, I aspired to become a Knight of Caeli to His Majesty. I’d trained hard, and even moved to Asturia to better my chances and credibility…but my femininity barred me from entry. It was an all-male sect of Asturia’s royal guard, so of course I was rejected.” A teardrop fled. It was caught and cast away, without much thought on her part. “In retrospect, I suppose I should’ve expected it.”

            “It was a dream of yours, and yours alone.” The rest of the gin in his flask had gone, so he corked it once more and slid it into a side-pouch. “I’m sure there were a lotta lads after you, but you needn’t despair it anymore,” he went on, leaning against the large sill. He snuck a flower from a nearby vase. A somewhat nervous flush had entered his face, suddenly; was the gin finally tickling his brain? His Brogue was slurring a bit more than usual. “I’ve faced prejudice before, but I can’t say it was on a scale like that. My apologies, Milord…for you to endure such a harsh criticism.” He scratched his cheek. “If I had a say, I think you fit just fine in Fanelia’s ranks…‘specially as her 3rd Viceroy-Knight.”

            Percival wasn’t expecting such an unusual brand of compassion from the echidna. Even lesser did she expect him to hand her a thorn-less burgundy rose. Its deeper shade and absent thorns only meant a couple of things. But they were that much more impressive since she knew what they meant.

            Shyly, the 2nd Viceroy tossed his eyes—and blush—away from her. “It’s their loss, really.”

            Tenderly, Percival’s white gloves took up the flower. A light pass over Gawain’s leather ones made her own blush take over. Incredibly and astonishingly bright, it was. How Gawain was able to communicate “love at first sight” along with “unconscious beauty” to her amazed her. How long had he felt that way? Somehow, it was an exciting venture to look into. He smoothed the back of his neck upon seeing her tearfully sniffing at the rose.

            Another rose, from the same vase, had vanished too, somehow.

            The mischief-maker from the celebration, Riche, had been taking flowers from several different vases and playing pranks on a few partiers. A Fanelian guard—now reduced to formal civilian attire—felt a couple taps at his back, took one of Riche’s flowers, and questioned it a bit, before meeting eyes with an unsuspecting maiden. Blushes were exchanged between them. Oddly, out of Riche’s favor, the girl accepted his gesture and was led to the dance floor. The bee grumbled under his breath, pretending to tear his “hair” out.

            “No way am I giving up! One more—just one!”

            He buzzed off, going between conversation bubbles, and up to another vase. That one held a particularly lovely variety: multicolored lilies. Some were carnation, others were saffron. Even pale-green and spotted.

            “Ooh, these are _super_ pretty~!” Greedy, little hands reached for them.

            “Aha! I knew it!”

            The bee child Riche flinched. He lost a few from his handful and swung his head around: Marina was the one who found him, and pointing an accusatory finger at him. Cheeks bubbled and ears perked with steam, Marina threw her fists against her hips.

            A nervous wave preceded a just-as-nervous, “Eh heh…um, hi there, girlie…?”

            “I knew the bouquets my mateys an’ I worked on for _hours_ were lookin’ sparse…for _some_ reason. An’ it was you, stealing ‘em!”

            “Ahh, what—ya mean these?” He flounced the bushel at her. “I just, uh, found these lying around…!”

            “Whateve’! I know Milady lilies when I see ‘em— _I’m_ the one that arranged ‘em!”

            Suddenly, a hulking green crocodile came onto the scene. Formal but still a semblance to a wealthy merchant, the tall reptilian crossed his arms and gave Riche an overruling glare.

            “Aw c’mon, Trammor, what’re you taking her side for?”

            “That’s ‘Boss’ to you, buddy boy! Y’aint got no business takin’ other people’s things, Riche, especially if they’re _royal_ property!” An anger vein pulsed.

            A sweetness filled Riche’s nostrils. “But their stuff smells _really_ good though, Boss!” Then, the croc’s vein got bigger. He was also gritting his teeth. In terrifying actuality, sweetness wasn’t the only thing the boy could smell. He gulped, awkwardly set down the floral bunch, and tried buzzing away. But a claw-like grapple snagged the neck of his shirt. Loud whining and complaints drew the nearby guests’ attention. Trammor did his best to quell the fury and embarrassment for the boy: toting the boy while he kicked and flailed only embarrassed him more. “Grr, I was trying to strike up conversation with Princess Marcy, too…ya little brat,” He remarked, in the swamp of names the boy barraged him with.

            Marina took up the displaced flowers. She stuck her tongue out at the leaving Riche and snickered at him being carted on the crocodile’s shoulder.

            Seeing her march off, the chameleon, Vintasse, shook his head in dismay. In one hand was a small glass. Brimming around its midsection was a rubicund liquid. He swirled it a bit before turning to face the person at his back. The raised parlor lifted guests and residents alike off the main floor. A seating area welcomed them at the forefront. Tying the salon together were comfortable chairs, side tables, even a chaise longue, with knickknacks and ornamented oil lamps as finishing touches. Cushioned alcoves allowed them to curl up in the day’s light. The salon sat alongside the scullery and galley areas; a tiny walkway separated them. Nimue had just exited the galley when she spotted the chameleon approaching someone from behind. She smiled and continued on.

            “ _Ave Vespa,_ 1 st Viceroy.”

            Lancelot sent his startled leer back to the chameleon. There was a small glass in his hand, as well.

            The almost magenta chameleon donned a dark-gray shawl over his evening outfit. More Eastern in influence, top and bottom hems ballooned under wrist bangles and anklets, and his sashes crisscrossed over his hips. His sandals gave a regal flair only desert-dwellers could flaunt. Clever citrines had snagged him out of his daydream.

            Carefully, Vintasse went down to a knee. His unique tail bobbed to maintain balance. “My name is Vintasse Esper, Undercover Detective of Asturia’s Investigation Bureau. It is an honor to be graced by your esteemed presence, ‘Lord.”

            “Thank you for your attendance,” Lancelot bowed in return.

            Between the two, confidence was gained before they struck up a casual conversation. News had been going around about a development between the Asturian and Mercrusian Kingdoms: New partnerships as far east as Basram were being considered to strengthen trades and tourism. Basram was a physical halfway mark between the continent’s western and eastern hemispheres. The sole settlement, nestled within Hesroma Sound, was the next checkpoint northeast of Mercrusia. Even further north, before the canine village Tyo’boke, were the Mausolea of Viole. It would be an extra four days’ worth of travel to redirect one’s path along Titanic Plains, which proved rather inconvenient for both sides. A new thoroughfare in the southern range of Floresta Mountains would remedy it. Multiple routes could be carved out alongside the major one running almost directly across from Fanelia. Vintasse even pointed it out: Overlooking Titanic Plains seemed to be an aurora-like wall. Pearlescent wonder gleamed on the mountains’ face.

            As they discussed it further, the evening dance began. It would be the last dance of the evening, and it was Arthur’s chance to showcase some dance moves. Moods from folksy to classy bounced in and out of the hall. Ladies weren’t ashamed to kick their ankles to match their gentlemen’s. Even Gawain and Percival had a chance to lead their guests into a jig. Everyone around them clapped in time, as tambourines clinked and fiddles strummed. As elegant a venue the Fanelian Castle Ballroom was, it didn’t stop nostalgia from marching in. The Kingdom’s people embraced their roots and heritage. Widespread community made them want to share their wares, talents, and food with others. In a sense, Arthur wondered if it’d always been like that.

            Wartime had ravaged Fanelia, he remembered from Lancelot’s explanation about the Stronghold walls and watchtowers. At some point, the kingdom had been attacked. Who would want to attack such a progressive and friendly city?

            In efforts to concentrate more on the lady dancing with him, Arthur dismissed the notion. _“Hey, I’m better at this than I thought,”_ he cheered himself on.

            At the tune’s end, he stole a peek at Lancelot. The 1st Viceroy didn’t seem the least bit interested in dancing with anyone, so he kept away from the ballroom floor. Off in the Salon, the Asturian detective left to refresh himself—begrudgingly, Arthur noticed. He blinked a little at his leave, and decided to keep company in his place. Up the steps, Arthur smiled and approached. “Evening, Lancelot.”

            But the young co-lord said nothing in return. It came as a slow, but reticent, nod instead.

            “Hmph. I see you’re flowering against the wall again. Why not branch out and mingle for a bit?” Arthur held out his hand. From it, Lancelot’s leer met Arthur’s. A handsome wiggle of his eyebrows made the King look mischievous. “Then, you can climb back into your pot. Whaddaya say?”

            Pristine gloves gave an aura of yearning. Lancelot felt a reluctant quiver in his chest. His blink was meditative, but lightly conflicted, nonetheless. Something made him stare at the hand. It looked kind. It looked warm, understanding, and even merciful. Mingle a bit, then return to his pot, he fancied. It was an odd way of putting it, but Arthur was conscious of the Viceroy’s introversion. _“Such gracious compassion,”_ the black hedgehog fancied again. _“Much like his mother…?”_

            And, before he knew it, his hand had entered Arthur’s grasp.

            “I wanna refine my waltz, after all,” Arthur added. Then winked.

            As the players set up for their next number, the guests noticed King Arthur and Viceroy Lancelot. The Viceroy insisted Arthur take the lead and show him what he’s learned. In clever return, the King received it as a challenge and grinned. The ball’s ladies clasped onto their leads’ arms, a sparkle of romance in their eyes. Miles wondered where Vanille had gone, but before asking Lamorak—who seemed ready to tear his crest feathers out—the little fox noticed Arthur taking Lancelot’s hand for a waltz. Percival tugged Gawain into watching their fellows enter the floor’s center; a blindsided confusion hit the echidna in the face. Doyen Gustavio wondered quietly, as had King Asturia and Queen Mercrusia. Even the Asturian Princesses found themselves tickled by the display. The Sylvine Luminaria huddled together, arm-in-arm. Nimue had whispered about how well Arthur was dancing earlier, which made little Marina blush irritably.

            A female soloist sang for the two. There with her were a pianist and a lyrist. All the ladies were in flowing gowns. The troupe was the same from both the tavern and the square. Were they local performers? Surely, honored guests. But superb multitaskers, at best.

            Lancelot nodded, “Begin.”

_“Bah’myyr, namaste… Khir’dhnni, yah peghir’d shüd hakthe  
_ _Lo! Mal’garht hid! Ng’yro d’naïthe, Ng’yro d’naïhu…”_

            Arthur made wonderful progress: Without any need for correction, he’d taken Lancelot through the basics. Airy vibratos coursed around in the ballroom’s air. It swept through Percival’s whiskers, which flinched from a plump giggle. Gawain’s spines flounced a bit, but were brushed back by his hand.

            In deepening concentration, Arthur kept up with Lancelot. _“One, two, three…four, five—…”_ he whispered in his mind. Timing was everything in a waltz, so he wanted to show his instructor how well he remembered. Lancelot gave him the chance. In its midst, he could feel a breeze strengthening.

            Dancing under the Library’s skylight gave them privacy. He was sure Percival would be meeting him that particular evening; when Lancelot showed up in her place, Arthur was startled. A vague interest had been hinted in the 1st Viceroy’s eyes. He wanted to be sure the King knew the waltz—so he could dance with his queen, someday. Small hums kept them in time. Lancelot taught him the easier way to track one’s rhythm.

            The song playing for them now was the one Lancelot taught him to waltz to.

            Did Lancelot know, or was it just a popular song? If it was, how did Arthur know it? It sounded different from what he recalled. But how could he recall a song he didn’t remember learning? A forgotten lesson? A prenatal memory even? Or…?

            Was this fate?

 

* * *

Outside the Fanelian Castle, Vanille and Third Princess Mariette had finished their flower crowns. Adorned with daisies and thistle, respectively, they decided to make one for Galahad. Pale-blue elderberry stems were twisted together with ivory anemones before being put atop Galahad’s head. From his kneel, he smiled bashfully at both girls giggling. A dutiful salute received a sweet-hearted reception.

            “Yay! We did it,” the Princess lauded. “You’ve taught me so much, Miss Vanille! I want to come back and make more crowns with you again!”

            “That would be wonderful! Many thanks, Princess!”

            As they cheered and laughed, Galahad suddenly picked up on something. Getting to his feet, he stepped away a bit and heard singing. Soon into it, the girls picked up on it, too. Vanille’s ears perked up, while Mariette’s twitched.

            “Ooh…someone’s singing, and it’s really pretty,” the rabbit girl sighed.

* * *

 

_“_ _Chir’had, nyhe’nyho mih, rol’dhnni, heid’nyhid bah nirrh-hah…”_

            A muted glow emanated from Arthur’s Ensign.

            Upon the second refrain, Arthur and Lancelot’s capes whipped about in the waltz. More advanced techniques were employed by Arthur, but he handled them with expert precision. Rhythm stayed, and a gentle breeze wisped around the room. Flower petals applauded. Overhanging crystals jingled. Ball gowns flittered, while their ladies sighed. An air of romance literally filled the air.

            A sparkle had entered the King’s eyes as he remembered what came next. His lead on Lancelot tightened. He wasn’t sure if the Viceroy noticed, but he’d made sure their saunters matched. Their capes glittered in the moonlight. Lancelot felt a warmth in that kingly hold. His hand led them into a dreamland all their own, somehow. The air smelled of ripe pollen. Table skirts flittered. Princely hands made Lancelot recall a distant, and foggy, memory.

            _“Tor syül khükshid, sorrhe bih tahl nha’nyhe lu nyhakthe  
            __Lo! Tol’serht hid! Ng’yro d’naïthe, Ng’yro d’naïhu…”_

            That’s when she disappeared. That was also when the guests collectively gasped.

            It was when Arthur braved through the stares. Not to mention the very first time Lancelot felt fond of the King’s lips.

 

 

_Tonight’s also the night…I’ll say “I love you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used for Arthur & Lancelot's waltz is a "Gaean" version of Kingdom Hearts II's "Namine". The Gaean version will be a recurring theme for the overall storyline, and has been renamed for that specific purpose. The song's name roughly translates to "Never Forgotten, Never Thrown Away".


	22. The Dark Nymphs' Dance of Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Highly suggestive depiction(s) of sexual intercourse, and intense situation(s) involving blood and magical/demonic possession.
> 
> CONTINUE WITH MODERATE CAUTION.

Event Twenty-Two

 

Amorous, amorous love. There—in gentle, gentle sheets. Those—tangible, tangible sighs.

            Guinevere did not feel complete. The Emperor’s palms besieged her body. From buxom teats to cringing toes, stimulation flooded her body. Her thighs groaned, her hips ached. His tongue savored her. But to Guinevere, she still felt unwanted. Uncared for.

            Ultimately, unloved.

            She knew he was just using her. She knew there was a mission he wanted her to complete. The Emperor’s orders were absolute. To defy him meant to betray him. And to betray him meant death. It meant becoming another empty husk amongst the countless littering his palace’s stairs and beyond. And Guinevere didn’t want that.

            “So young…such supple mounds you have, my dear. Tender, tender flesh…it’s been so long for me, you know. Alas…” A sharp kiss. “You’ve no competition, my lovely Guinevere.”

            He was too strong. Everything about him was too strong. It didn’t matter if it was his hands, aura, musk, or words. Such esteemed strength defined an alpha male. It was uncanny, almost unnatural. Perhaps taboo?

            It didn’t matter. Once the deed was done, he was done. It was what he promised to her. It was a mutual promise—but never implied love or anything silly like that. Every once in a while, a Nymphus Nox needed “attention.” And the Emperor was never ashamed to oblige her.

            Somehow, it was heartbreaking for Linde. In the laboratory, that bothersome echidna—advanced in years, full-blown snow, and obscenely obedient—operated on the Nixie Dragon, Isis. She wailed in pain from sliver upon sliver of her flesh’s removal. Subsonic waves could’ve made a normal person’s eardrums rupture. Her shrieks were deafening, indeed; a soundproof precaution was implemented soon into the procedure. The old man wore a crazed smile all the while, as if he enjoyed seeing her in pain.

            _That heartless toss down the mountainside was forgotten when her eyes met the man’s._

            It made Linde chirr. “Heartless savage.”

            No matter what, Shamarazad never indulged in the Emperor’s company. Lonesome desires were kept to herself, and if plans happened to coincide she wasn’t bothered by following orders. Long enough time spent with him would make anyone go insane, she’d claimed. Incredibly resistant to his advances, she never laid down with him. Which was something Guinevere teased her about: Her “virgin” status. If Shamarazad could help it, she’d offer Guinevere or Linde to go in her stead. But, somehow, she’d be talked into going—with Guinevere, and sometimes Linde too—leading her into his bedchamber.

            _That airship whipped at her tresses as she escaped those skeletons._

            Therefore, he’d indulge in all three of them.

            Otherwise, the Emperor of Zaibach held a commanding air. It wafted. No soldier or tactician couldn’t smell it. No one could ignore it. No one was blind to it. And it was something even the Four Demon Generals didn’t deny. It was something Guinevere had always known.

            Ever since she was an innocent handmaiden.

 

* * *

 

The Most Beautiful of the Dragon Slayers retreated to her quarters. Wrapped in a plain white sheet, moonlight gave her shape a lonely elegance. The round window let her observe the golden-yellow moon—Værsol—passing through the sky. Autumn had the most fickle way of arriving, out of the seasons. Without a clear reading of warmth or cold, her rose garden didn’t know when to get ready for sleep.

            Guinevere’s rose garden was a tiny incarnate of ones from her maiden memories. Reds, yellows, and pinks of all shades; orange, maybe purples and blues; white was practically standard. Cavernous abbeys abound in the Talis Mountains—the female counterpart to the Valris monasteries. There were no such things as flowers in that place. But that never meant they didn’t exist. Guinevere longed for one more trip to the Floresta Isles. She could raise as many flowers as she wanted there. Though their Insectan residents had every right to fend off invaders, especially of the Zaibach variety. She herself had done no harm to the islanders; bearing that emblem had made her a regretful sight to them. She was never to return. Never to see those bumbling bees or their scented nurseries ever again.

            Imported roses kept her sanity. Tamed by their scent and colors, Guinevere cared for them, professionally, herself. No one else in the Zaibach Empire was allowed in that sanctuary. Special exceptions were Linde, Shamarazad, and the Emperor. Not only was it Guinevere’s paradise, it was also home to the Rose Dragon, Persephia.

            To whom she’d scurried after a fit of anxiety.

            _“This is not his face…!” That man’s hand. There is no light behind him; his halo is strong. And dark. Hungry, even. “He isn’t my love…!” There was fire. Victorious fire. Glorious fire. Sundering fire. Freid was a conflagration. And there was no mercy in his eyes. “His face is gone!”_

            She wailed. The bat-woman wailed. She wailed like a widowed wife-to-be. Her tears, bitter crystal. Forlorn and longing. Yearning for the man she could not wed. The man who’d killed her once before.

            Persephia’s warbles did very little for Guinevere. All she wanted was someone to hold. Someone to wipe the images from her memory. They were too horrible to watch. Too difficult to ignore. So intrusive that she couldn’t sleep sometimes. Persephia had no limbs, but her wings—glassy prismatic shards—coiled out and gave her privacy. Rainbow veils hid her shame, her lovesickness. Her cries went uninterrupted.

            And it made Linde clutch her chest. _“Why must I suffer so…if she, whose pain is much greater than mine, is the one I love so dearly?”_

 

* * *

 

Zaibach, as an Empire, ruled the east with a merciless iron fist. As a nation, it was the most squalid, desolate, and lifeless in the world. Minimal care went into the lives of the people. There were no people to care for. Most were dead, others vying to escape and risking everything in the process. Shacks lined the foreground into the empire. All but a few were empty. Coups d’état from times past had been decimated. The previous Emperor, Haim Lebbæus, had an unflinching army, but with no adversaries to defend against meant no need for soldiers. Most of his infantry went on paid leave, never released from duty, and decided to feed the hungry and house the homeless.

            That all changed when the Emperor was assassinated by his own son, Delvander Judas.

            Death by poison, it was easy to convince the masses that the old man had slept away. The masses felt the repercussions, unfortunately. His father’s army was reinstated, which left many Zaibach civilians without support. Chaos followed when theft, arson, and murder ran rampant. Women were hoarded and raped by any men who regarded themselves as “alphas.” A resistance group, in its attempt to assassinate the current Emperor, had the rug thrown from over them and murdered en masse. No one dared a threat on the Emperor’s life since. And only a trusted few were allowed into His Eminence’s inner circle.

            Three of whom he’d summoned.

            The Nymphus Nox entered the ark. Deep within Zaibach’s Imperial Fortress was a quarantined section. Its entries read “No Entry beyond This Point” or “Class Gold Entry Only” in Gaean Tongue. Linde, Shamarazad, and Guinevere stepped into the spacious darkness. Guinevere’s superb night vision led the other two toward the center. It was round, altar-like space. Pillars, by count of four, encircled something. Stepping downward, Linde clasped onto Guinevere’s hand. “Wait.”

            Guinevere shivered, freezing in her tracks.

            Shamarazad huffed. Her breath was frigid. “They’re here…and so is…?”

            A lonesome chirr, and the echidna nodded. The mark on her bicep glowed. So did the ones near Linde’s upper calf and above Guinevere’s cleavage.

            “Welcome, ladies.” Another appeared in the darkness. “So glad you could join us. Ever so timely…you lot aren’t ones to disappoint.” The marking moved along with the speaker’s hand motions. “Come hither, now, don’t dawdle! We’ve preparations to make! Hurry—to your Dragons!”

            As Shamarazad approached Pallastheia, a bright glow shot up from underneath them. The same happened to Linde and Erismene, as well as Guinevere and Persephia. Even the albino echidna had a Draconian partner. The only notable feature was on its face: A large pearlescent orb was cradled by two magnificent horns. Fairly flat-faced, it looked like a chimera—lion forepaws, reptilian hinds, and four salamander tails. Despite its somewhat regal appearance, it growled like a tiger.

            “Begin, Strategos Damocles.”

            “Yes, Your Magnanimous Eminence.”

            Pulling back a wizard’s sleeve, the sigil near the old man’s wrist brightened. Slowly, it became a dazzling opal. Magical energy amplified, decreasing the effects of gravity for a moment. “Irid Chromos: _Imito_.” Liquefied steel floated in his palm. Molding and morphing there, it shaped itself into a large spear-like weapon before splitting its full-length in half. A thin film filled the space, and the man’s hand went through it. Violently reflective opal was absorbed onto the film and scattered out. The man withdrew his hand quickly, took hold of the edge, and guided more amorphous metal outward. As the film hardened, so did the metal. Soon, a wide-tipped handle became a handhold. The metal cleared and lightened, until it resulted in a highly reflective surface. “Precieuse, Mimic.” The mark revealed a winged chimera—half-lion, half-dragon. Its wings curved downward, tail spiraling around the back.

            A manic gleam sculled across his eyes. “Now, Dragon Slayers! Commence the Dragon Dance! Let your bodies exalt the Sacrilege Dragon’s revival!”

            Shamarazad’s black ensemble allowed no streams or trains, but her curves stood out against the elastic tank, shorts, and fingerless gloves. The dark-gold gem on her headband began to glow. Along with the Gungnir on her left bicep. “Summa Metallon: _Excorio_.” Twirling her quarterstaff, magic went into its transformation. Soon enough, she caught it with one hand and poised herself into a single-footed combat stance. Pallastheia warbled in her song, but it was dutiful—and slightly mournful. “Aduro Khopesh, Flay!” A black belt flowed in line with her sword swings.

            Linde’s black halter stopped at her diaphragm, but her leggings sprouted coattails. They danced behind her as she spun about. “Biter-Is: _Ligaveris_.” Coming out of her pirouette, she stamped a finishing heel against the platform. Twin sigils, matching the pale-blue Elven Star on her calf, shingled out from her hands and spawned a pair of stiletto blades. Curving an arm under her bust and another over her head, the bandanna’s aquamarine gem ghosted to life. She prepared herself to strike. “Hauteclaire, Bind!” Erismene belted a glass-sundering cry.

            Guinevere’s sensuous strokes evoked more powerful magic. Her black string bikini aroused a dark magenta aura to enshroud her and Persephia. Persephia’s cackling soprano set the bat-woman’s heart ablaze. Like a battle cry. “Lethem Heme: _Vitio_.” Black wings flared, her back arched, and a magenta light flashed from her buxom chest. Just between her cleavage and collarbone, a Triple Goddess sigil—a full moon framed by outward-facing crescents—opened. Continuing her arch, Guinevere guided a mysterious weapon from a glow between her legs. Out coiled a sectioned sword, all disconnected and wriggling. The instant she took hold of the hilt, the sections unified with a loud _clink!_ —and she used it to help herself to her feet. A seductive sigh: “Brinnig, Corrupt!”

            The Most Beautiful Slayer led the trio into the dance. Meanwhile, their Draconian partners trilled and howled in evocatively harmonious chords. It echoed, it quivered; it shook Damocles’ heart. “Yes,” he groaned. “Yes, what a beautiful song…! Sing, Draconian Warren! Sing, and let your grandfather know your voices!” His eyes watered. “My sweet Opellæga! Join them, lead this Sepulchral chorus—rejoice in your Father’s return!”

            An ominous aura blasted from the altar. It, in itself, was not atop anything. It actually descended into a pool. There, in its midst, was Emperor Delvander himself. With the Scabbard of Excalibur in hand. His aura matched the Scabbard’s: His veins protruded from his flesh. Its power, amazingly dark. His capes and robes danced, whipping out of the pool and around in the air. Immense magical power dispersed the water from around his feet. Magic distorted its shape and color. It trickled upward in miniature waterspouts. Morphing globules floated upward. The Emperor’s eyes were rolled back into his head.

_“Sazhbalasirkh’shudbalinaldinnisjahk, infidelnirrukh’nyhakal’dhinnbalsirrh…  
            Sazhbalasirkh’shudbalinaldinnisjahk, infidelnirrukh’nyhakal’dhinnbalsirrh…”_

            A string of incantations repeated, literally falling from his lips and tongue. Fluid chanting streamed. There was little breathing room. But the Emperor had entered a trancelike state very quickly. Enough to assume he’d become possessed.

            “Do not stop your dance, Nymphus Nox! Praise the return of the Sacrilege Dragon! His Wondrous Excellency is the conduit to his revival! Oh, blessed be Emperor Delvander Judas, Imperial Highness of Zaibach! Long live Our Empire! Let us usher in the world’s new god!”

            Then, a piercing shriek filled the chamber. It didn’t stop the Dragon Dance. It didn’t stop the Dragonsong, either.

            “Come, Alseides…! Answer to me, the controller of your fate—for I have unsealed you, woken you from your untimely slumber. Let me form a pact with you—solidify the bond between our souls!” One hand went over the hedgehog’s head. Copious quills thrashed in the magical tempest. “Take my blood, Destroyer of the Fen Dragon! Gaea will bow to your Sepulchral Majesty! Take my blood, and you shall take this world!”

            Another mighty shriek.

            “Open, Gate of Asgard! Your conduit commands you!”

            Laborious breathing cut in and out of spitfire chanting. The magic spiraled upward. Another pool took after the water that trailed upward. Four tendrils formed a helix. They connected the top and bottom pools together, much like an hourglass. Dark magic coiled upward, as well. It took shape from the pools underneath each Nymphus Nox and respective Draconian.

            “Unify them—my Ashram Dragon, Opellæga!” Damocles made a grand gesture with both arms.

            It led all four Dragons into a final crescendo. One that shook the chamber. One that sharpened the waterspouts into even tighter corkscrews. One that pierced the heavens above, and brought a thunderstorm and all its boisterous lightning. Haunting lilts, demonic bass, ghostly tenors, and alto, and sopranos. All welcomed the long-forgotten Sacrilege Dragon back to the physical plane.

            Evil gospels shrank into redeeming quibbles. An even darker essence took hold of Zaibach. Lost spirits wept, and unsent souls pled for vengeance. Four massive wings stalked from the Imperial Fortress. In and out of the skies overhead flickered the tiny essences of Fay. Sylphs lost altitude, and their wisps became tinged with lilac. Taller, androgynous Undines were limbless and somewhat headless—only with mandibles and opaque veils. Undulating dirges wafted in and out of the landscape, along with the Undines.

            Exhausted and drained, the Nymphus Nox heaved for breath. The air had chilled drastically. Pallastheia shivered at Shamarazad’s back, a wing holding her close like a protective sibling. Erismene growled as Opellæga landed in front of them. Linde ruffled her shoulders, bitten by the blast of cold. Guinevere crawled back into Persephia’s underbelly and allowed the Rose Dragon to coil around her in attempts to ward off the chill.

            Strategos Damocles descended the stairs to see the results better. “Magnificent…” he stuttered. Quaking hands held his face, unable to keep his eyes still. “Magnificent!”

            A mass of black bulk filled the space between the upper and the lower portals. More eased out: While two sturdy forearms anchored the uppermost torso in place, another pair slithered out to solidify it. They pressed in on the chamber’s wall. Long, lithe, and—again—massive. Those four wings towered over the Fortress; they’d successfully escaped the other dimension’s shackles. The lower half still crept in as more of the torso crossed onto the physical plane. Hind limbs took hold of the ground. The women flinched at the heavy stomps.

            But Damocles stood. Motionless. Almost in awe of the creature. As the portals began to close, he lauded, “Magnificent! Just magnificent! _Truly_ magnificent!”

            In monstrous eyeteeth was the Emperor’s entire neck. Pinpricks to the monster, but knives to the man. The sight made Guinevere’s stomach lurch. Blood splashed onto the creature’s fangs. It drooled down the man’s chest. His eyes leered over to match the more Earthborn face that protruded from the beast’s forehead. A much bigger Draconian eye snapped its toxic green sights on Guinevere, who’d gasped, before locking onto the Emperor’s general direction. Snarling dragon fangs left the lower portal, heaving Delvander’s near-lifeless body into the air.

            That Earthborn face: It looked familiar to him. Without a particular gender, there was something beautiful and mysterious about that face. Delvander reveled in the jaws that’d sank into his neck. More than enough blood needed to ensure the pact. But he laughed, ever so gently.

            A weak hand went up to touch the remotely masculine cheekbone.

            “Be one…with me, my Lord of Asgard. I shall be…your vessel…”—the strength in his hand was leaving quickly—“and usher Gaea…into Dark Heaven. Let there be calm, my Lord.” A choke.

            Then, his hand dropped.

            Guinevere, Linde, and Shamarazad gasped in unison. “No! Your Eminence!” Linde cried out.

            But the Scabbard of Excalibur was clenched once more. Even more power swelled from it, now.

            “This sheath grants its holder immortality and leaves them insusceptible to death,” the Emperor, slowly but surely regaining strength, managed to explain as the Sacrilege Dragon’s Earthborn jaws released his neck. He hit the pool, the hardness underneath, and streams of blood escaped. Only for a moment, before the wounds closed themselves up. The hedgehog struggled a moment before finding his balance. “It is a gift and a curse, this Scabbard. ‘Together, the sheath and blade of Excalibur preserve the world. The Broadsword, without its Scabbard, will create and release life in the name of virtue. The Scabbard, without its Sword, will lose itself in darkness but destroy death.’ Alas, I have sired the Infidel Weapons with its eternity…though, at the price of a quartet of souls.”

            The swordswomen gasped. Dread constricted their airways. Fear pressed in on their hearts. “No…” they huffed. But Strategos Damocles licked his lips. “I’ve pledged my allegiance—and soul—to you, My Illustrious Sovereign.”

            “Indeed, you have.”

            An immaculate tattoo had taken over his neck. Deep claret markings were too densely woven to discern any specific patterns or symbols. But they’d branched out from the bite marks. They twisted downward, flashing and hissing. Mystical imprints painted each pool’s tile bottom, stained them, and permeated beneath the surface.

            A low rumble shook the air between the Emperor and the Sacrilege Dragon. He lowered his Draconian head into the pool. His Earthborn head hinted at no particular specie. The featureless pate bore no one’s resemblance, but seemed so familiar to the hedgehog. Entranced by its beauty, he smoothed another kind hand across its ivory cheek. He smiled at its surprisingly accepting nod. The only distinguishable detail on that face was its impressive eyelashes.

            “Welcome, Lord Alseides, to the Ark of Vione.”

 

 

A Draconian God Lives Once Again…

 


	23. There is a troubling air...in this westward wind

Event Twenty-Three

 

Near the passing month’s end, Arthur found himself much farther ahead than he did before. Time as a king grounded him; he griped less about resisting mundane pleasures, like eating or sleeping whenever he wanted, and learned to endure things better. Although, Percival was never ashamed to ask him if he needed anything. To which Arthur would sometimes decline.

            This particular day, a letter made it to his desk. It was a red-coated notification. Tea in hand, Percival came over to see it as well.

            “‘Tis a forward from Asturia, Milord.” She sent a sideward glance his way.

            A pensive nod. “He says he wishes to convene with me and Lady Mercrusia about an urgent matter. Since you’re her representative, Percival, would you accompany me please?”

            She bowed dutifully. “Obliged, Your Highness.” Relieving herself, “Would you like Sir Galahad to accompany us as well, as Lord Asturia’s representative?”

            Arthur finished his last bit of _yirsar’lh_. Carmine petals embraced the clean porcelain. “Yeah. I think it’d be good experience for him. Let’s give Lancelot a heads-up first.”

            “Indeed.” She bowed her head in agreement. “Shall I have a coach prepared for us then, Sire?”

            Arthur inked in the last bit of his response before sitting back. Stiff vapors waggled past his nose. A bright red chair rocked back with him, much like the swivel chairs back on Earth. But those iron workings and frames felt a whole lot sturdier. He shut his eyes for a moment. “Y’know? It’d be a lot faster if we rode with Bastet and Escaflowne.” The blue hedgehog got up and stretched. “He wants us to rendezvous in Asturia, so it’d be good if they got out and stretched their wings.” He winked coolly at her.

            The lady-knight blinked a little, then smiled sweetly. “Indeed. At once, Your Highness.”

            He took up the letter and rolled it tightly—just like Vanille showed him. “Thanks,” he returned as he stuffed it into the labeled canister. The Mercrusian Kingdom’s crest adorned that suede swatch. An ornately knotted cord hung from it in handcrafted decoration. He smiled at it, then caught the last of Percival’s bold swagger. There was firmness hinted in it, he could see. _“An urgent matter, huh?”_

* * *

 

_“…Wonder what it could be?”_

            The night followed swiftly, after some preparations and a smooth farewell. The Nocturne and Tempest Dragons barreled over the Aegean Safeguard in a friendly race. The young mink, Mikhail, held onto his feather hat, but the feather was snatched up by the gust. Not at all heartbroken, he grinned and waved them good travels.

            Nighttime lights led wandering owls about. Children darted into their homes, while the night-shift guards went around lighting the lanterns. One little girl had gotten lost, but Sir Lamorak helped her find her way back. Afterwards, her parents thanked him for his service and wished him a good night.

            Work like that was handed to newly enlisted Squires, occasionally. It was a good exercise for them, in order to help them relate to the common folk and maintain good rapport between them and the Fanelian Guards. In more-or-less words from the ever-wise Doyen-General Gustavio Macchus.

            The old albatross sat in his office in the Ambassadorial Cabinet. Book stacks, documents, letters, and almanacs surrounded his desk. In such a difficult space, anyone who entered wondered how he was even able to think. Namely Alfred. A compatriot in more than one sense, Alfred Rohmann often assisted the older man in his endeavors to better the lives of Fanelian citizens. His duties as the Knighthood Institution’s Headmaster, however, barred his efforts to assist just as often. But soon, Gustavio felt, the Headmaster would need to redirect his attention to his Consul duties.

            He eyed a particular book. It was jet-black, etched with a wolfsbane pattern, and bound by a coarse ribbon. A foreign seal adorned its stamp: It featured yet another dragon—more subterranean in appearance. The Gaean Script gave him an idea of where it’d originated. Beady eyes peered down at the spine’s writing:

            “The Book of Sacrilege.”

 

Sere’s light filled the Castle’s corridors. Atzü’lu and Værsol yielded to their father’s early arrival, so the Earthwork could breathe. Sere always minded the affairs of her brother and his children. Her presence was the most consistent out of the three Chief Gods. Always aligned with Gaea, and strangely preferring the Mystic Moon. Still, the Mother Sunbird’s vessel was always seen, the Father Earthmover always close, and the Relic Lifeblood always lying in wait.

            Although, Gustavio felt a mild discomfort on his way to the Castle Library. In fact, when came up to its doors, one was slightly ajar. Putting his oil lamp ahead of him, he peeked inside. No eyes came to meet his. No movements, no sounds; it was strange. At a slight raise of his eyebrow the Doyen backed away, shutting the door. Its gentle _clack_ made him blink.

            “…Is someone here?” he asked himself calmly.

            “Halt! Intruder!”

            He threw his sights over to the voice’s source. Polearm in hand, he made his way for the Rotunda. His pale-gold cape whipped around, strong Avian chest bearing all the medallions and ribbons of a war veteran—and a previous ruler. Sturdy boots made little noise. Questions hovered in the air prior to his arrival, such as “Who is she?” and “How did she get in here?” marked his features with a much deeper nod.

            Atop the stairs leading into it the albatross’s voice made the soldiers yield: “Stand down, men. We’ve a curious intruder in our midst, doth we not?”

            Spearheads and halberds lowered. Concerned growls escaped. “Sir! But how curious of an intruder, Doyen?”

            The albatross stepped into the Rotunda’s wide arcade, each Round Table member’s bedchamber not too far off in each direction. Amidst them, a hunched back straightened. The cloaked woman moved very slowly, but within enough time for Gustavio to meet her eyes. They were pallid, almost sickly. Drained of hope and filled with fatigue.

            “I see you’ve aged quite a bit… _former_ Imperial Shaman.”

            Undeniable disbelief overtook some of the soldiers’ faces, while younger-looking ones watched in mild confusion.

            Now at a normalized posture, the woman removed her hood. The men at Gustavio’s back were awestruck by her: A barbed iron ring encircled her pate, appearing falsely angelic. Rusted jewelry clamped into her forearms and calves. Loose bangles clinked at her ankles and wrists. Lithe feet slipped against the floor like an expert spy. On her belt were satchels, colorful vials and pale powders. In her hand was a pendulum. There, attached to the chain, was a glass orb. It glowed and pulsed with magical energy. Enough of it captured her mysteriously youthful essence.

            “As you may remember, Doyen…” The echidna woman turned to see the albatross closing the gap between them. The soldiers at his back remained ready for anything. “I wield Fay as a source of power. With more precision, their souls.” She showed him the tiny light creature: A light-green bulb with four gleaming wings. It flittered about in its container, all but cognizant to what was going on. “But this one is special, you see. This…is a Sylph.”

            Doyen Gustavio visibly flinched. “Where did you find that? That is a guardian of the Paragon—release it immediately…Orathsheba!”

            The woman gave him an unfriendly, crooked smile. “Oh, but dear Gustavio? Do you see how it’s tinged with purple?” She lifted the pendulum higher, as he stepped closer. “I was using it to find the boy-king…but then I noticed _this_.” A more visible shock overtook his face. Strong beady eyes leered at the inconsistent light the fairy was giving off. The bauble was cool to the touch, but unusually so. A dark chill prickled his palm; the fairy inside shivered.

            “What could this mean? Is it…?” He looked to her, dread trailing off his beak.

            She grinned. “Yes. It means a foreboding presence has entered this plane…and its aura is immense, strong enough to affect the Fay here, in Fanelia.”

            “And the Albion? What of the Sirens and Satyrs?”

            “They’ve gone and lost their heads to become Undines.”

            “Ah…!” Gustavio choked a little. Then, a low growl. “So, that must mean…?”

            “Yes…” She chortled softly. “Beware the ‘dark one,’ for his aura reeks of insanity and doom.”

            “The ‘dark one’?”

            Another raspy chuckle. “He’s purple with mystery. As is sheepish Elena’s flighty disappearance. She never returned, did she? As I’d known already.” Pale turquoises veered past the Doyen’s bicep to his polearm. A nifty place to hang a lamp from. She made a motion to pass him, but his polearm’s blade blocked her path.

            “To answer you: no, she never did after that final time. But her son is here in her place. So be wary of how you pursue him, former Shaman.” His eyes cast a scary glare. “Even with that Sylph, you’d best not tread so softly…lest I’ll bring this axe down on your neck.”

            Despite it, she remained unfazed. She even ran a fingertip along the axe’s head. Red liquid trailed down one side. “You shouldn’t make threats, Doyen. It’s unbecoming for quite the seasoned regent like yourself. I’m nowhere near as old as you, but I’ve the mind of a crow and wisdom of an owl….” With the same finger, she pushed the double-bitted axe aside. The lantern clanged gently from the movement; the candlelight inside flickered. “Beware the dark one, Doyen Fanelia…beware the Sacrilege.”

            Droplets of her blood fell on top of the fairy’s body. It cringed and writhed, the iron toxic to its tiny form. Its wings gummed together; that bioluminescent glow burned in pain and distress. She cooed, “Fay die slow, miserable deaths when assailed by blood…Drown, pretty little thing. Return to your precious Mother.”

            The guardsmen minded over her departure: Unsettled by the sadistic display, two of them had let her through—repulsed by her. They had thrown their shoulders back, as if avoiding a heinous plague. A younger guard, not much older than Arthur in fact, gazed in utter disbelief as he watched the fairy die in the witch’s bauble. Hearing her low snickers unnerved him even more. Dark-brown tatters draped her form. She’d slumped back into an elderly hunch, even though her youth proved prevalent in her features.

            “Aye, begone, foul witch…!” the young one sneered.

            “Hold your tongue, knave.” Gustavio retorted, a bit too softly to be taken aback. He let out a sigh. “Address her with respect. She bears a lofty title, though we no longer enlist her aid.”

            Orathsheba treaded away, out of the Rotunda, and into the white moon’s vigilance.

            The albatross closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Just above his beak, where his glasses usually rested. “Back during Lady Elena’s reign, she toted the title of Imperial Shaman. Yet, after the death of Lord Uther, I exiled her for her failure to save his life. I resented her after that confrontation, for a time. But I’ve learned to forgive her…”

            The woman’s blood had wiped clean from his masterful blade. He glared down at the handkerchief. There was a simple monogram stitched into one corner: “G.M.”

* * *

 

_“From Lady Elena, herself.”_

            At last, Fanelian royalty graced the castle-stronghold of Asturia. Palas, her capital, greeted them with elegant gilt likenesses to the guardian-god—the Permafrost Dragon, Jeture. Sir Percival treated Galahad to a quick legend regarding the guardian’s majesty: Jeture resided much farther north of the Floresta Mountains, and he watched over the hinterlands behind them. As Earthborn adapted to the climate and traveled north, he noticed how rapidly their breeding had increased. Too many trees were being cut down and springs were being invaded, so he was forced to moderate their usage. Most understood, but others rose in defiance in the form of clans. To protect the innocent, the Permafrost Dragon froze the massive lake with his breath and wiped out the rebel clans. Grateful to him, the remaining Earthborn were allowed to live around the lake’s edge; a priestess, a white fox named Celena, even forged Moloch’s Oath with Jeture to fortify their trust. Hence, both of them protected—what was thereafter named—Celena’s Permafrost.

            The massive lake in the hinterlands’ center held fresh water and fish. As the springs melted during Khümrolia’s Midrift months, it would make its way southward. That’s where all the fresh water for Fanelia, Mercrusia, and Asturia came from, she finished. Fascination sparkled in the squire’s eyes.

            Upon settling on a seaport, the entourage was welcomed by King Schezar. Classy and demure as ever, he came up to King Arthur, Sirs Percival and Galahad, Escaflowne and Bastet to formally acknowledge them. Soon into it, the Fanelian visitors were spirited away by carriage. Leaving the Draconians to follow by air.

 

Caelian Knights lifted their spears and pushed open the throne room’s double doors. Seafarer opulence draped, bejeweled, and embossed the room. Royal blues and white foams made Arthur remember the bay right offshore. Rich sands created a fun-looking beach. But the fun would have to wait, though. Urgent business came first.

            “Welcome, Fanelia.” Just before the King’s seat, Asturia’s Crown Princesses took a turn to greet Arthur, Percival, and Galahad. The eldest, Princess Marceline, led her two sisters in an elegant curtsy. The Second Princess insisted a knightly bow, while the Third Princess giggled and mimicked her bigger sister.

            “Yes, it is good to see you again, Young Lord!” Mercrusia’s Queen Tiamara was also there to greet Arthur. Her gowns bounced with every step, and his cheeks ended up in her hands. She smooshed them lovingly. “You’ve grown by the barest _costa_ since I’ve seen you last!”

            “Forgive me, Milady,” King Schezar interrupted while taking up her hand. Noting her blush, he continued, “but we should make our way to the symposium. There is information Lord Fanelia must ascertain from us.”

            A worried expression came over both monarchs’ faces. Sir Percival bowed in acknowledgement. King Arthur did the same, nodding to them. Only Sir Galahad was left in a haze of innocence.

 

The oceanic view impressed Galahad. Training with the 1st Viceroy had finally borne fruit from his labors and practice. Silver armor had manifested for him from an unknown power. One that Sir Lancelot himself had no name for. So he saw a trip to a distant land as a necessary venture sometime in the future. Now with good mastery, he could summon energy into his armor. Loose plates, at best, but interesting turquoise rings bound them together. Underneath was the squire’s uniform—a dutiful tunic, shorts, boots and gloves, and a simple circlet with bright beads framing his face.

            Feeling oddly nostalgic, the squire smiled at the coastline.

            Within the Asturian Castle’s symposium was a hollowed table. Its oblong shape was somewhat familiar to Arthur, but he wasn’t expecting a detailed molding to fill it in. A story was told on it; seemingly how Asturia came to be as a kingdom. At five places were full sets of tableware, complete with glass goblets and silverware. After the three monarchs and Sirs Percival and Galahad took their seats, covered platters rolled in. Handmaidens came around, one after another in a skillful pattern, to serve each of them. At their dismissal all they’d left were delicious foods and exquisite _berruber_.

            The only exceptions were the lady-knight and squire, who’d accepted the fruity drinks one maid had to offer.

            “I’ve never been told about the Barrier Stones,” Arthur had to admit to both fellow monarchs. “But it sounds like I need to know about them. What are they for? Do they protect something?”

            “Yes,” Lady Mercrusia nodded.

            “It is actually a sacred duty for us as Earthborn to ensure their locations’ anonymity,” Lord Asturia spoke up next, setting down his wine.

            “Their location is a secret?”

            “Within good reason, milord.” Earlier concern had made its way back into Schezar’s face. “A toppling of dominion has entered our Earthly plane. We believe it aids in the disappearance of the Satyrs and Sirens, as well.”

            “Satyrs…and Sirens?” Arthur looked to Percival for an answer.

            As simply as possible, she returned: “The Albion—or guardian spirits representing the Father Earthmover and Mother Sunbird, respectively. There is a third spirit, but…?”

            “I’ve been sensing dissonance in the environment as of late,” Sir Galahad suddenly piped up. “My teacher, Lancelot Malfreid, has attested to this sensation, as well. He describes it as a ‘chill,’ and the Fauna have been unusually skittish. It’s like…they’re afraid of us, now.” Disheartened, his voice softened.

           “Ah?” Lord Asturia stroked his chin. “Sir Galahad, your master hails from Freid, yes?” At Galahad’s affirmation, he hummed. “Then he must be aware of the last Barrier Sword’s location….”

           Arthur looked back at King Schezar. “The last one? How many are there, and are they correlated to the Barrier Stones somehow?”

           Queen Tiamara finished the last of her helping. “Very much so, Young Lord.” She pattered her mouth before speaking again. “The Barrier Swords awaken the Stones with their protective magic—as a defensive measure for the Paragon.”

           “Which is the ‘Oracle to the Pantheon,’ serving as a voice for the Chief Gods and Demigods,” Percival clarified for him. “If I may, Milady”—the Queen allowed her to continue—“in all, there are four Barrier Swords. There is a Sword to each Stone. Even I know not of their location, for that is knowledge for the kings. Only the monarchs of the sibling kingdoms know of the Paragon, Barrier Swords and Stones’ locations.” She rose from her seat, signaled Galahad to rise, and bowed in graciousness. “With that, I and Sir Galahad will humbly take our leave. We leave you in the sanctity of the symposium, Monarchs Arthur, Schezar, and Tiamara.”

            “Thank you very much, Lords and Lady,” Galahad followed just as graciously.

            Their departure was quiet. Outside the room, now, Percival encouraged Galahad to show her around. But the boy’s shyness easily got the better of him.

            “I’m going to assume my parents knew their locations, then?”

            King Schezar and Queen Tiamara locked eyes with King Arthur once more. Intricate vaults trapped midday shadows; glistening sunlight filled the marble spaces. Ancient armor-suits lined the alcoves. Engraved plaques identified them as previous members to the Knights of Caeli. A class of formidable warriors, home-bred and home-raised. Percival had wanted to be that exceedingly rare exception, only to be barred on “meaningless grounds.” More than anything she loved Fanelia, but her heart still panged from the King’s rejection. And with those some-odd years’ passing, Percival wished the position on Galahad. He was young and promising, if Sir Lancelot had any say. One name that graced a suit’s mantle was Miguel Lavariel. Though proven to be a traitor to the crown and burned at the stake for dabbling in necromancy, he had been a highly skilled Knight. There to burn alongside him were three of his closest subordinates—all of whom had met the same fate as Miguel. A volcano and its surrounding islands to the farthest north were named after them.

            A reminder Lord Asturia blocked from his mind, for Queen Tiamara’s sake.

            “Alright…So, there are four Barrier Swords that correlate to four Barrier Stones. You said the Swords awaken the Stones, Lady Mercrusia, with protective magic?”

            “Yes, Young Lord,” the lady-feline replied in earnest. “Specifically, they were all fashioned with that purpose in mind. Each sibling-city holds one of the Swords. My Kingdom, in particular, stowed away the Barrier Sword, Secace.” She waved over her shoulder.

            “As did mine, with the Barrier Sword, Morglay.” A gentle _clink_ of his glass summoned a pair of Caelian Knights.

            Veiled, armored maidens appeared strong enough to carry in the artifact. Antiquated with a natural sheen, the mystical blade was cushioned and bore an almost sandy sparkle. From the other side, two Knights brought in a crimson-marked broadsword. Olden markings knotted along its blade, giving off a mysterious warmth even through its pillow. All four servants knelt down on each side of Arthur. He looked down at them before turning his sights back up to King Schezar.

            “There is a fourth Sword, Young Highness. It is Durendal, of the Duchy of Freid. Alas, Freid met an untimely, barbaric demise under a bombardment by a Zaibach air-raid in the past, so its whereabouts are currently unknown. We only pray that the Praktu of Fortuna Temple have it in their safekeeping….”

            “If it is found, will the Praktu let us know?”

            “Surely. That was the last communication we’ve ever received, and now it’s been almost 20 years….”

            Ideas mulled around in Arthur’s brain for a moment. Suddenly, Lancelot’s visage came to mind. He could envision a mild sadness in his face. _“From that time in the Hospice?”_ the King wondered gently.

           “Until then,” Queen Tiamara spoke up, “we entrust our Swords to you.”

           Arthur blinked rapidly. “Wait, me?” He pointed at himself.

           “Yes. Your Prestigious Kingdom holds a member who can safeguard them in sworn duty, without fail. He knows of the Stones’ locations, as well—he shall be a tremendous asset, should Earthly prosperity ever become imbalanced.”

           He gave her a satisfied smile. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

           “Indeed. The Barrier Stones lie far to the northeast, along the rim of Mystic Valley. It is home to most of the world’s Fay, and they are the invisible guardians that watch over the Paragon. Their locations are specific and well-hidden, since they require a Paradisal Blessing to locate them. You and your Viceroyalty are perfectly capable of utilizing them, Young Arthur.”

           “All of your Ensigns were granted to you by Paradisal Blessings,” King Schezar added. “The Fay will reveal the locales to you and your Viceroys. Just show them your Ensign; if you, for instance, did so the Sylphs would lead the way.”

           “Because of my Magistralis Ensign…right?” Arthur looked down at his palm.

           “Since they’re sworn to protect the Paragon, the Fay must approve you before you can set foot into Mystic Valley.” A sternness entered the chinchilla’s voice. “Such hallowed grounds must be kept safe from intruders and ne’er-do-wells.”

           Arthur looked back at his hand. “Hmm…” he hummed in thought. The radiant wind-wisps of his Ensign gave off a sleepy greenish trace.

 

* * *

 

The Empire of Zaibach was roused by the setting sunlight. Military forces moved about, though with nothing or no one to guard, per se. The desolate land yielded only a fortress-city. Deep within its bastions, a conference was being held. Armored inside and out, the Zaibach Fortress’s conference room was safe from prying eyes or rebellious cavaliers. Black-coated guards kept a hawk’s eye out for anything suspicious.

            “This debriefing shall now come to order.”

            Inside sat a table’s worth of compatriots. All of them were black-clad and colorfully accented. Close-knit wool uniforms kept them from the below-par conditions. Despite the nation’s advances in technology, there was somehow no need to heat every single section of the fortress. The Emperor only paid mind to living quarters, since they housed his soldiers, his Dragon Slayers, the Strategos, Generals, and himself. Other places were left in the cold—quite literally.

            “Forgive the absence of His Eminence,” interpolated Strategos Damocles, the only one dressed in white. “He is busy tending to our newly instated secret weapon. Doing so renders him preoccupied, at best—but he is still minding us from his reflecting pool.” The male echidna cleared his throat. “Now then, let us proceed. All in attendance: I, Strategos Damocles Kleidix under the aegis of the Glorious Empire of Zaibach.”

            On an adjacent side of the circular table, a female cheetah stood. A sparkling silver claw-ring gleamed at her salute. “I, Silver General Gustine Getin under the aegis of the Zaibach Empire.”

            A male marten, seemingly too young to be in the room, stood up after her. He smoothed a hand through gradating blond-brunet bangs before bringing it into a salute. “I, the most handsome Bronze General Helio Eides under the aegis of the Zaibach Empire.”

            Next stood the second-oldest man in the group. A salute to the chest; then, a cunning smirk. “I, Iron General Zodia Quu under the aegis o’ the Zaibach Empire, and geared fer war.”

            Lastly, a stately lion with an infamous mane and piercing cobalt eyes. He saluted, as well. “And I, Copper General Adelphos Gein under the aegis of the Zaibach Empire—are present and accounted for, sir.”

            “Very good, then. Be seated.” The albino echidna gave them all a grievous smile. “Let us begin with our first phase.” Damocles pulled up holographic references as he spoke. “As you all know this phase, alone, came in two ‘sub-phases.’ Initiated in order, the Dragon Slayers have slain the Adamantine Dragon, Diamant”—the Iron General snickered, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it—“and the Mollusk Dragon, Kyrgue.”—the Bronze General licked his lips—“As for the Nixie Dragon, Isis, her coat is being excoriated with utmost precision and delicacy. Her feathers are being extensively analyzed, for now, but expect a couple gifts in the meanwhile.”

            “Gifts, you say?” the Bronze General pushed. “I smell a promotion!”

            “There’s no way you’re toppling me, stripling,” the Silver General pushed back. “But about these gifts, Strategos…?” Her eyes narrowed a bit, her natural markings streamlining them further. “Does that mean the spoils have been collected, then divvied up as well?”

            “Ah, but of course. The Dragon Slayers aren’t to horde their loot like their prey. The Emperor himself could care less about such material riches…lest they prove some usefulness, he’d toss them away without a second thought.”

            “Bullocks! He should simply give them to me!” the young man piped up again. “I could woo any woman I want—as _many_ as I want—with that treasure!”

            “You’re in no place to make such demands, little General.” A deep rumble came from the echidna’s throat. It was low, threatening, as if the marten had encroached upon his territory. “You shall not challenge the Emperor’s decisions, whatever it regards. Watch your tongue, or I’ll slice it off myself.”

            Young Helio threw a hand over his mouth. A sweat drop fell along his jawline.

            “Ahem…Despite the first phase nearing full completion, the third phase is greenlit to begin. The second phase, in fact, has already been completed—with said ‘newly acquired’ weapon I mentioned.” A crystalline image of that massive Draconian was shown to the Generals. Adelphos gave it a good stare. Zodia smacked his forehead, grumbling a bit irritably. But Damocles merely grinned. “With the Emperor tending to him, he must work from a relatively restrictive area. His Eminence provides a never-ending supply of power to the weapon, thanks to the Scabbard of Excalibur…by allowing it to take his blood.”

            “His blood?” The lion’s eyes widened.

            He bowed his head in reverence. “Yes…”

_Beside his reflecting pool, the Emperor oversaw the meeting from an overhead view. He could hear every word. Every explanation. Even his mention._

_“His Eminence must remain in the Ark of Vione as a power source to our weapon. At present, he is replenishing his strength with the Emperor’s blood. ‘Tis in endless supply, due to the Scabbard’s necromantic powers.”_

_All the while, he glided his fingers along the Earthborn head’s temple, while his torso remained in the dragon’s smaller second mouth. The dragon’s body coiled around the altar._

            The Demon Generals were at a loss for words.

            It didn’t seem to bother Damocles in the least, however. “We should be thanking the Scabbard for its usefulness, hence His Imperial Highness for gifting us such tactical and martial power. We’d be paralyzed as a nation without either….”

* * *

 

The Rose Dragon, Persephia rested amidst the Rose Garden. Artificial sunlight kept the room nice and warm, comfortable to the Draconian and her master. Healthy vines danced between florid trees. Alabaster bark was almost unearthly. Tamed wildflowers flooded the garden. Mosaic cobblestone wound towards a daybed fit for a fairy queen. An overhanging branch haloed over it to uphold a spider’s silk canopy.

_“Which leads me to discuss the third phase of our plan.”_

            Green light beamed down on Guinevere. The weakest of Energists provided not-too-bright illumination for her, since normal sunlight hurt her eyes. She awakened to its gentle glow. Not quite fully recovered from her anxiety fit, the bat-woman glanced around a bit sharply. As if looking for someone.

            A worried warble: Persephia had caught onto her arousal.

            Her memory fogged. “Was someone just here…?” she asked the Rose Dragon.

            An approving warble, this time. Even a light nod.

            Confused, Guinevere brought her sights to the only entrance. Heavier silks veiled it, but she sensed a familiar presence behind them. Their scent stood out from all the floral aromas. She crawled toward the edge of the bed. Another set of mattresses supported the main one. From that pancake terrace, Guinevere slipped down. Sniffing the air as she went.

            The person didn’t seem to move.

            Guinevere squinted a bit. “L…Linde?”

            “And Shamarazad, too, dearie.” Another shadow appeared from behind the first. “Are you…feeling better?”

            “Yes.” Persephia slithered over and poked her snout through the canopy. Guinevere reached out to pet it. “…For the most part.”

            “I hope you are. Because we’re about to enter the plan’s third phase. In which we’ll face kingdom troops head-on. There’s a chance you’ll encounter _him,_ mind you.”

            A discouraged look sculled across her flawless features. Persephia’s chirrup also sounded melancholy. In a sad tone, she tried to inspire her to go on—like the strong master that she was. A breeze wafted in via skylight.

            “May we enter, Guinevere?” Shamarazad asked.

            Tears flowed onto Persephia’s snout. A sad coo echoed over the garden. The most beautiful Dragon Slayer seemed drained, especially now that she roused from her drug-induced slumber. She barely grasped the memory of Linde coming in to quiet her. It was on the Emperor’s orders, she’d admitted begrudgingly. There came a prick, an apology, a kiss, and then darkness.

            A spirit of embarrassment took hold of her face. “Yes. You may.”

 

 

_It’s such a troubling air…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Notes: English translations to Gaean words/phrases:
> 
> yirsar'lh / "ear-sah-r-lah" - hot beverage muck like coffee  
> berruber / "bear-ruh-bur" - liquor  
> The Albion - the trifecta of demigod-like manifestations corresponding to each Chief God. Sirens (not the seabird-women) are usually depicted as angelic females, with the six-winged variety to be the rarest of all. Satyrs are sage-like males that are depicted with various species of hinds, favorably equine, thus resembling centaurs. Undines are depicted with androgynous features, but said to be the most terrifying in appearance - with skull-less mandibles, ghostly veils, missing limbs, and woefully lamenting.


	24. There is a nostalgic chill…in these Earthborn hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Brief but intense depiction(s) of violence/death, mutilation and blood, and discomforting visualizations ahead.
> 
> CONTINUE WITH MILD CAUTION.

Event Twenty-Four

 

Fanelia’s Aegean Safeguard towered over the horizon. Escaflowne and Bastet balanced on the currents perfectly. It was Sir Galahad’s first round-trip with Bastet, so he was getting used to her. His master’s partner was a seafarer, as was said master. It was something Galahad came to admire about the 1st Viceroy.

            That yellow-tasseled commander bellowed: “Draconian Aerie, ho!”

            “Welcome back, Lord Arthur—Sirs Percival and Galahad!” Sir Mikhail greeted them, grandly waving both arms. There was a big grin on his face, too. No older than Galahad, Mikhail looked up to Galahad in a way no one else could describe. Graduating alongside the hedgehog inspired the mink to do well—more than that, better. As he watched both dragons soaring back to the Castle, he thought back to his youngster days. Where he shared a shyness with Galahad. Now, he was bolder and more determined that he’d ever been—with an A-class mentor, to boot. How he was selected by such a heavily decorated official, he’d never know.

            But for now, he looked on hopefully, even after the dragons had disappeared.

 

            More welcomes came from the guards that lined the path to the Pergola. Rich marbled stone terraced a bit before narrowing towards the main gate. It was more intimidating the first time, but it’d been so long ago Arthur didn’t truly register it. His footsteps were fast. Paced well enough for Percival to keep up with, but for Galahad to jog after. After a moment’s hesitation, the Squire followed Percival’s dismissal and made his way back to the barracks.

            “The urgency has heightened,” the 3rd Viceroy reinforced. “Let us make our way to the Cabinet. I’m sure everyone’s convened already, after word of our arrival.”

            “Yeah, me too.” Arthur’s eyes sharpened. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

  _“Young Highness,” Lady Mercrusia had spoken up once more. This time, her voice had deepened with gravity. “We’ve received news from the Marquis of the Expanse of Basram. I’m sure a red letter has been sent to your desk, but since you’re here we should probably inform you, as well.”_

_Arthur’s attentive glower matched Lord Asturia’s._

_Bringing the red-dyed letter out of her satchel, Queen Tiamara unfolded it and read the message for him._

* * *

 

            Only Arthur and Percival entered the Ambassadorial Cabinet. Inside, seated around a large round table, were Doyen Gustavio, Deputy Consul-General Alfred, and Chancellor Miles. With Sir Gawain at the Doyen’s right hand and Sir Lancelot at Miles’ left, Sir Percival completed the formation by taking a seat at Alfred’s left hand.

            Arthur joined them. He folded his hands together.

            But before he could stray off in thought, Gustavio began the convention: “ _Ave Diurné_ , Lord Arthur. I trust your travels to Asturia have borne fruit?”

            “Yes, they have. I received word about the attack near Basram.” That more serious gleam was muddled by a somberness. “It involved a fleet of Melefs drowning in sand…and the death of the Mollusk Dragon, Kyrgue.”

            A heartstring was pulled to Percival’s surprise. She hid her gasp well.

            “As you are aware, Milord, Kyrgue was the guardian of the entire Hesroma Sound, where Basram prided him as the region’s patron-god. He was also Bastet’s father, so to hear this must be especially hurtful to you, 3rd Viceroy.”

            She only nodded, allowing a tear to fall.

            “Were you able to gather information on his killer?” Arthur had to ask.

            “Yes.” Gustavio whipped out the red letter that was meant for the King’s desk. “I asked Nimue to bring this to me once it reached the Outpost. It says,”—he brought his glasses onto his beak—“according to Marquis Warrick Haram, the assassin…was Guinevere Dahlia of Zaibach’s Dragon Slayers.”

            Gawain growled. “So it was one of _them,_ eh?”

            “So it seems.” Gustavio took off his glasses to face Arthur once more. “Now, Basram is on high alert for Zaibach forces, should they decide to sneak across the borders. It’d be wise to expedite our joint interests in expanding travel across the Titanic Plains. I’d consider the hastening of anchorage construction, as well as creating emergency protocols for air travel. Asturia is much further ahead in the former; perhaps an engineer or two would be good assets for us.”

            “Agreed,” Miles attested. “Really, if you send for them I can handle the rest. I’ll get those airships up and flying in no time! You can count on me, Milord!” He threw Arthur a thumbs-up; the King smirked in return.

            “As for Mercrusia, I’m able to say that their efforts to expand on this air-travel idea are already underway,” Alfred was able to reinforce somewhat happily. “This will be a good counteractive measure, in the need of evacuation or migration.”

            “Indeed.” The pensive glower on the Doyen said otherwise. “I pray it never comes to that, but it’s good to think ahead.” He eyed Arthur. “What say you, Sire?”

            “I say the same. They all sound like good ideas….”

            Miles tilted his head in concern.

            “Your thoughts seem to lie elsewhere, Your Highness.”

            Arthur put his hands up to his chin. His brows dipped. “Yeah, they are. I’m just worried about Bastet, that’s all.”—Percival couldn’t hide her gasp, this time—“What would a Draconian’s reaction to something like that be? I mean, if she doesn’t know already. And, frankly, her father wasn’t the only one that was killed…right?” He raised an eyebrow to Gustavio.

            A reticent huff. “Yes, that’s right. Surely, it was Lord Asturia and Lady Mercrusia who informed you…of _that,_ I take it?”

            “Sure did.”

            Miles looked on at the deadlock between Gustavio and Arthur. Nervous sweat coasted along the boy’s temple. Alfred patted Percival’s hand; the 3rd Viceroy sniffled a little. Gawain’s thoughts tightened one hand into a fist; Lancelot’s face told no hint of daydreaming—strangely.

            He simply listened in. And Miles took notice of it immediately. _“W-Wait…”_ the boy’s mind sighed. _“_ More _than one Draconian was targeted…and killed?”_

            “For all who were not aware,” Gustavio began in a grave tone, “Bastet’s father was not the only Draconian casualty in this attack. Most prevalent in name and nature, the Dragon Slayers have also targeted Bastet’s mother—the Nixie Dragon, Isis—and Valborga’s mother—the Adamantine Dragon, Diamant. We have no word on Isis’s whereabouts or status…but it weighs down my heart to say that Diamant has perished.”

            Arthur’s eyes flared wide. Percival clutched her hand, pressed it closer upon her lips.

            “Oh no,” Miles cried, “Diamant…!”

            “Over my dead body!” Gawain’s demeanor had seared away and he threw his angry voice at Gustavio. “How in the world did she—whose carapace shatters swords!—succumb to death? _No one_ could’ve possibly slain her—that _has_ to be a lie!” He threw his palm against the table. “Who did it, _Skhänke_? It was those Witches, was it?! You know, don’t you?” That palm turned into a fist. “I don’t care who it is—I’ll kill ‘em myself, with my bare hands!”

            “Sir Gawain…” Miles moaned in worry.

            In a calm voice, Gustavio rebutted, “‘Tis no lie, Gawain. What purpose would it serve the Prelate of the Valris Monastery to lie?” He placed a hand atop the echidna’s fist. “And what good would it bring to kill in vengeance? Bloodying one’s hands in its name only brings pain to the avenger. Would Valborga truly approve of such a needless act—and for the sake of his mother, who now knows peace?”

            “I won’t stand for it!” Gawain snatched his hand away. “At best, I’ll be doing it for _him!_ ”

            Arthur threw his eyes at the echidna. Somehow, a rage he’d never seen had surfaced. He kept a close eye as the Doyen left his seat.

            “At best, you’ll be doing it for _yourself._ Stop this nonsense right now, Gawain!” The old man even got in the echidna’s face. “I know how you feel about this, but these are _not_ Valborga’s feelings. They’re _yours,_ and you should keep them away from your partner—especially at a time like this. He knows his mother is dead, surely…Do _not_ allow your anger to fester!”

            “How would you know how Valborga feels? _I’m_ the closest thing to a brother he has—I know more than you can say!”

            “Gawain…?” Percival’s eyes were starting to water. An uneasy tide had washed into the room.

            “You don’t know anything about him, but I understand him more than you do! I _want_ to avenge him, _Skhänke_ , and I don’t care how stupid you think it is!”

            “Viceroy, please!” Miles tried to wave him down, “You’re making everyone here uncomfortable. Please control yourself!”

            “I don’t need to control myself!” Gawain would have slammed his fist into the wall. If Gustavio hadn’t caught it. He fought against the albatross’s tough clench. He snarled, “Release me! Let me go!”

            “You’re letting your anger rule you, Gawain. It’s disgraceful.”

            “‘Disgraceful’?! You think this is disgraceful?”

            “Come, look at yourself, Gawain.” Gustavio pulled him toward a nearby mirror and forced him to look into it. He locked his arm behind his back and his other hand on his jaw. “Look at your face. Look!”

            Almost like a belligerent child, Gawain huffed and snorted and snarled at him. His other hand had been clamped under the strong-bird’s elbow, with his fist wriggling against his chest. The echidna even snapped his fangs at his reflection. Such an uncouth display made Arthur wonder. He stood as he looked on, noticing the reluctance in the 2nd Viceroy’s eyes. They were reddening, from rage, and his fits of resistance came in weaker spouts. Still strong, but once he looked into his own eyes it was like a piece of his soul had shattered.

            Gustavio brought him closer. “You’ve reverted back to that sulky brat I picked up on my way to Gael-Mar, you see? And it’s been _years_ since I’ve seen him….” The seventeen-year-old growled lowly. “Remember what you said to me when I first saw you? You told me, ‘there ain’t no one left to save.’ Covered in dirt and blood and with no feeling left in your face…Then, I told that boy—that angry ‘scallion of a boy—there _was_ someone left: You.”

            All at once, Gustavio released Gawain from his hold and allowed the Viceroy to fall to his knees. The Doyen backed away, letting his words sink into the young man’s head. All he needed to see was himself. Despair had made its way back into Gawain’s features. He’d thought that angry child inside him had been put to bed, but he’d woken up in a hot fury. Nightmares streamed past the echidna’s eyes.

            _A peaceful pasture…sheep…people singing and dancing…bombshells…houses conflagrating…screams…blood…silence…cinders and a wind so intense it was cruel._

            “Me mom and pop…everyone I knew…were all gone in an instant.”

            “That’s right. Gael-Mar was annihilated by a Zaibach air-raid, and you were the only one who survived.”

            “Only ‘cus me mom threw me in the cellar. I got trapped, and had to burrow my way out…It took me three days.”

            Percival muffled her gasp with both hands.

            “And what did you see when you came up?”

            “…I ain’t see nothin’. Nobody but death. I ain’t see Mom and Pop nowhere either. I ain’t see nobody for days, so I left the village in a shock.”

            Arthur’s eyes widened.

            “That’s when I found you, Gawain. And that’s when I brought you along with me.” The burly albatross got down behind Gawain and put his hands on his shoulders. “That’s why you’re here, Gawain. That’s why you’re stronger and braver than you were back then. You mustn’t forget that.”

            Gawain lowered his face. “I did forget…Forgive me, Doyen.”

            “I do. Be not ashamed. It’s alright to cry, Viceroy.”

            Palms streaked the mirror’s face. The Viceroy’s back hunched, like a child beaten by an assailant. Mumbles of remorse and self-reflection came in emotional spurts. Hiccups also escaped; a much calmer fist tapped against the floor in frustration. Sniffles followed swiftly. And even sooner did his weeping.

            As teardrops leaked from his eyes, Gawain mourned his village, his family and neighbors, his livelihood and aspirations. All he’d wanted was the peacefulness of Gael-Mar. He’d wanted to inherit his parents’ land and take up his father’s crook. He wanted to protect those sheep and milk those cows, and till that land and raise those crops. But all had been incinerated in a single night. Without a chance for him to say “I love you” or “goodbye.”

            Calmer, weaker cries were forced out. There was nothing else for Gustavio to say. He simply let the teenager cry, release all the bitterness in that bottle for a heart.

            “Gawain…?”

            The fiery echidna threw his eyes up to a gentle, yet scared, voice. Tears still gushing, his eyes had lined up with Percival’s. Her cravat was dotted with that turquoise pin. Above it was a snow-white muzzle, twitching whiskers, and nearly invisible tears of her own. Fearful citrines wanted to comfort embarrassed tanzanite. Before she grew too close, the 2nd Viceroy had thrown himself into an apologetic bow. A full bow—complete with his forehead touching the floor.

            “My deepest apologies, Sir Percival. Even if you are a Knight of the Round,”—he sniffled—“you are still a lady and my conduct has been most unsavory. Please forgive me…I must beseech your mercy…dear lady.”

            Miles hopped down from his seat and clasped onto King Arthur’s pant leg. Despite his position, he was still a nine-year-old fox. Relief marked the blue hedgehog’s face, however. He took up the boy’s hand and held it. “It’s alright now, Miles,” the boy heard, and looked up at Arthur. There was a smile there. “Let’s adjourn this meeting for now. I wasn’t expecting such a…heated disclosure. Our health is just as important as this sit-down, so let’s call it a day and meet up tomorrow. Is that alright, Doyen?” Miles felt a brotherly hand smooth across his head, tickling his ears a bit.

            Alfred wiped a tear from his eye. Lancelot was the last to approach the dying fray. He observed the blush that’d taken over the co-ruler’s face. A palm on each cheek, Percival shook her head, quieting him of such profuse begging. Before he could utter another syllable she pressed her lips onto his. It was held for as long as Gawain could register what was going on. Then, beyond.  

            Doyen Gustavio smiled. “Yes. That is just fine.”

* * *

 

The day moved into night, and Evening Repast came. Another Fanelian feast went on with great satisfaction, on the end of the King. Arthur was able to lighten everyone’s hearts. Gawain had recovered and was back to his childish teasing and jokes. It was enough to make the children to laugh—even Percival cracked a chuckle or two. Gustavio and Alfred shared some personal experiences they had together, with Alfred telling about adventures during his traveling years while Gustavio shared how strict the monks were when he was an acolyte. Lighthearted now, he guffawed alongside Gawain. As if their clash never had happened.

            It was something that amazed Arthur. Especially in remembering how rare of a sight it was back on Earth.

            Repast ended, and the maids began collecting all the tableware. Light banter passed back and forth between them as they worked. Some mentioned the moonlight that hit the chandelier from the perfect angle; one was reminded of the coronation banquet and the somewhat gossipy kiss between the King and 1st Viceroy. “But it was lovely, the atmosphere was perfect!” the same one squealed—obviously, a much younger worker.

            Two middle-aged maids looked at each other curiously. “Is the Young Lord…?”—“Surely not.”

 

            The night passed through quickly. Under its cover, 1st Viceroy Lancelot glided through the main hallway into the Pergola. At his sides were blue-ribbon patrolmen—the highest honor in the Noble Aegean Guard. One of whom was the red-squirrel Corporal.

            “Is he waiting outside?” Lancelot asked him in a gentle voice.

            “Yes, but he’s quite restless. Sir Mikhail is there tending to him. Let us make haste, Milord.”

            As the men made it outside, the Mist Dragon was fidgeting. He’d thrown his sights all over before meeting Lancelot’s worried gaze. Loving coos cradled the dragon’s nerves and softened his tension a bit. Mikhail had backed away, a sense of failure drawing his eyes downward. “Not to worry,” the Corporal patted his shoulder, “you did what you were asked. Don’t look so disheartened, lad.”

            “Corporal Rylan,” the mink sighed. But seeing Arysariel in such distress made his heart grow heavier. It was odd to see the jet-black Draconian coddling Lancelot so shamelessly. Fearful whines rolled from his throat, even as Lancelot comforted him. Mikhail felt like something was off about it. _“But…what is the Mist Dragon so afraid of?”_

            “We’ll return before Værsol’s Midrift, Corporal. Be on your best guard, should my steps be traced.”

            “Is it wise to cross into Eastern Talæth, sir? Zaibach battalions must have swarmed it by now. Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

            “Despite their current machineries, they’ve yet to travel underwater.” He adjusted the belts across his insteps, and moved up from there. Next were his saddle tethers. “Arysariel and I should be fine if we utilize the waterways. The closest river moves inward to Freid. There’re many lakes in-between, I’m sure.”

            “Understood,” the other blue-ribbon guardsman saluted. Corporal Rylan did the same, bowing lightly. “We look forward to your safe return, 1st Viceroy.”

            “You have my thanks, Corporal. Look after Galahad, if you would. You too, Sir Mikhail.” He nodded to the boy in question.

            Without any words, Mikhail nodded vigorously. Determined sparkles entered his eyes once more.

            A light smirk, and both Draconian and master were off. Phelfis would surely watch over them, Sir Mikhail prayed. Hands in a prayerful clasp, he watched them fly toward Titanic Plains.

            The fields dropped shortly beyond entry, where grayscale faces hid and trolls pulled Guimelian caravans. One path cut right through them, toward the Mausolea of Viole, and continued its way amidst mountainous plateaus to reach the Megalith of Guimel. A stately, yet rather barbaric, prison in its own right, the squire recalled in school. No one wanted to go there, so horror stories made children keep their wits about them. Enslaved trolls towed the carts all over the place; no further west than Xeed Coast, special holdings kept the accused locked up until they arrived. Rounds took weeks, and it was the only way to transport criminals, currently. Lancelot felt that Arthur’s employment of airship travel would ease the trolls’ strife. Flying over a prison train tugged at his sympathy. Their lanterns danced. One troll didn’t bother regarding the dragon or its master.

            He was forced to dismiss it, however, once he realized how close they were to the Floresta Mountains’ southern range.

* * *

 

Arysariel dipped into a lake not too far from where Lancelot set up camp. A thick comforter unfurled from his travel pack, since it was too risky to make a campfire. Thinking back to worse conditions, the Viceroy-Knight made the most out of the supplies he’d brought: That comforter proved its worth by cocooning Lancelot inside it. One of his rations would keep him through the night. Also, a water flask and a dowsing pendant. Batting off luxuries, a small mahogany box kept a Glar salve and its leaves, a jar of honey, and Echinacea in neat quarters. Natural cures for multiple ailments would be helpful, he’d surmised.

            Now he could continue on without much worry. Even if not, he’d probably find them with his sensitive nose.

            For the time being, he monitored his surroundings. Shrouded Forest was safer at night. Bioluminescent fungi aided in the disorientation of volatile travelers, along with lakeside fog. Since so many dotted the forest, it was fabled to provide sanctuary to family upon families of Naiads. More creatures wandered about, Lancelot knew. They weren’t keen on bothering Earthborn unless territory was encroached upon; for that, Arysariel scouted and brought back a positive report.

            All was quiet. Crickets chirped, and owls hooted. Lancelot looked up and noticed the Father’s orange moon peering through the willow’s leaves. He blinked, taking a handful into his grasp. He ran his fingers along them: Narrow and long, their catkins no longer flowering. It was autumn, but the forest was still awake. A memory clicked, and he dug himself out of his comforter. Tenderly, he removed his white gloves in exchange for his black ones. Soon after, he took out a cutting knife.

            The Mist Dragon, Arysariel returned to the lakeside soon after. Not at all bothered by the wetness he retracted his fins and crept closer to see what Lancelot was up to. His hands were in a hole. And he was cutting at something.

            “These will be useful to have.”

            At a head tilt, Arysariel was shown what his master had brought out. Craning his snout closer his tongue poked at the relatively young roots.

            “They’re black willow roots. You gave them to me whenever I came down with a fever…I could never eat them raw, so you’d steam them for me.” A gentleness sculled across Lancelot’s face. He gazed at the roots in an almost loving way. “These woods are like a second home. It’s been so long since we’ve been here, together like this, but it hasn’t changed much—if not, at all.”

            Arysariel hissed in affirmation.

            “If my memory serves, it should be another Diurne before we reach Godashim.” The black hedgehog had swapped his gloves again. “We should arrive at the main wall by sunset tomorrow. We’ll wake up at sunrise and move out before midmorning. Can you make it without breakfast?”

            Arysariel nuzzled against Lancelot like a fretting parent.

            “What’s this? Are you afraid for me? I’ve rations to last me till our return trip…What’s this about me starving? I’m more worried about you.” The hedgehog took his hands and stroked the dragon’s jaw. “I can last weeks without food, you know. As for you, the longest you’ve gone was three whole months…” He pecked a kiss on Arysariel’s nose. “And that was because you were tending to me.”

            A serpentine lick tickled the Viceroy’s face. Just-as-serpentine garnets glistened, feeling a silence come over his master. He let out a wondering rasp.

            “What is it that troubles you, Arysariel? Your behaviors have become unsettling, as of late.” At a resistant sneer, Lancelot made the dragon look him in the eye. “You can feel it too, can’t you—this evil, ominous presence? Your overprotective behavior outshines your vigilance…It’s something I’ve not seen since I was a toddler.” A guiltier sigh left the dragon’s throat, this time. “I’m glad to know I wasn’t the only one. In fact…” He pressed his forehead against Arysariel’s snout. “Gawain’s outburst during our cabinet meeting was unusual, especially for him. In some way, I was reminded of a past I do not…and cannot remember.”

            Arysariel’s eyes signaled shame. He lowered his head further until his forehead rested against Lancelot’s chest. Kind hands reached up to caress the dragon’s scales. Gentle thumps reverberated from the hedgehog’s chest into his skull. It calmed him, and he even let out an appeased snort.

            Lancelot’s eyes drifted elsewhere, though. A song lilted from his throat.

            His swaddling years fell into the abysmal pools of his memory. The earliest year he could recall was the age of three, when he had tripped into a marsh after chasing a butterfly. Arysariel had swooped in to save him, but he cried until supper. He’d been too scared to look into the Mist Dragon’s eyes. But he was insisted to take a snag of blueberries, instead. A relieved smile perked the boy up before the dragon coiled himself around him.

            Memories Arysariel had to share with him. Another epoch of his life that escaped the Viceroy. The chant had ended. Before he realized it, he and the Mist Dragon had curled against each other to sleep.

            As they had done in years past.

 

 

_A very nostalgic chill, somehow…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Ref: More Gaean-to-English translations:
> 
> Ave Diurné / "ahv dyur-nay" - Gaean greeting meant for the hours between noon and sunset; essentially, and literally, "Good afternoon"  
> Skhänke - a mentor of advanced seniority, especially one who has a novice training under them (i.e. the relationship btwn. Van Fanel and Balgus.)


	25. There is an enigmatic fear…in these Dragonborn

Event Twenty-Five

 

Vaults opened up all the Fanelian Castle’s corridors. One rose window welcomed the midday beams; a little too bright for Arthur’s eyes. The intricate moldings, edges, stippling and carvings—everything glowed like heaven’s pearly gates. King Arthur had always appreciated the Castle’s fairly sunny interiors. Indeed, light was welcomed from most sides.

            For now, his handsome eyes were lost in its brightness. They glittered, reflecting the tiniest specks in the walls.

            Sir Percival, walking alongside, sighed despondently. “Today has been brimming with emotional tension, methinks.”

            Arthur looked to her, but not in her eyes. “Yeah?”

            She lowered her head. “I’ve never witnessed such infantile behavior from Bastet. Her father’s slaying and her mother’s abduction must have deeply traumatized her.”

_Apples rolled out of the sack the Viceroy dragged in. The Nocturne Dragon, bright-eyed and cooing happily, bounced in her perch. Her neck feathers bristled, and Percival couldn’t resist smiling back. “Here you are, Bastet. Enjoy.”_

_The oily sheen in the dragon’s coat glistened. Fruit and nuts made it shine so cleanly, so it gave Percival an excuse to spoil her with the season’s harvest. Orchards didn’t mind handing over overripe fruit; declining the need to barter, the harvesters were happy Percival could take them off their hands. If it wasn’t losing its color, Bastet would indulge._

_She smoothed a hand along the dragon’s head, as if to stroke someone’s hair. Sweetly, she hummed. “Alright, Bastet. I’ll leave you to your meal.” Getting up, she went on, “I’ve some errands to run, but I’ll return for—?”_

_A frightened, somewhat defiant cry escaped from Bastet’s “mouth.” She’d even snagged Percival’s cape with a claw. Mystified, the Viceroy’s whiskers twitched. “Bastet? What is it? I’ve other business to finish today. Is something wrong?” A motherly tone had entered her voice, so Bastet cooed. Her mask’s eyes had morphed from upturned crescents to tearful half-moons. Her normally electric-yellow irises darkened to denote sadness and fear. Percival returned to her side, got back on her knees, and took note of the calmness that instantly tamed her. Loneliness rolled from her throat; Percival realized what she was feeling. And a cord was struck. “Oh, Bastet…” The lady-knight’s heart soaked up Bastet’s woeful sobs. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here, I won’t leave you.”_

            “…I was never sure how or what to tell her…but it would appear she’s realized it beforehand. She’d felt her father’s spirit vanish…perhaps sooner than we can say.”

            “That sounds about right.” Arthur turned his sights up to the vault above them. Thoughts scrambled through his brain: Was this a sign? Would Gustavio’s hunch prove itself correct—that a “dark presence” truly had descended upon Gaea? Did Bastet’s separation anxiety correlate to this presence or her father’s murder? Or both? And what of her mother? Was she alive, but hanging by a thread?

            If she was, how would Arthur go about rescuing her? More importantly, _could_ he?

            His racing thoughts calmed once Percival took up his hands. One in particular decided to pester him, however. “You know, Bastet isn’t the only one acting weird. I think all of the Aerie members have been thrown off by this ‘presence’ Gustavio spoke of. We’ll have to investigate this further…I’m worried.”

            “Indeed, Sire.” Percival gave his hands another squeeze before breaking from them. She curtsied in her knightly bow. “I shall assist in any way I am able. Please excuse me for now, Milord.”

            “Thanks.”

* * *

 

Heading back the way they came, Arthur’s mind went back to the time in the Hospice, mere moments before.

            _Atop the highest scaffolding, Arthur called down Escaflowne for his lunch. Steamy meats wafted past Arthur’s nose, but they weren’t fresh enough to reach up to the Tempest Dragon’s den. Snarkier than usual, Escaflowne waved off Arthur’s offer._

_“What? You’re not hungry? Well, that’s weird.” He decided to climb up, but halfway up the ladder, Escaflowne had slunk down. An annoyed vein throbbed at Arthur’s temple. “Mrrgh…Anyway…” Climbing back down, he landed on his feet and dug out one of the legs o’ lamb he’d stowed inside the bag. “I guess this food’s gonna be all mine, then. Oh no—I don’t think I can eat all of this yummy, warm food, Escaflowne!” Jokingly, he pantomimed a damsel’s faint. “Whatever shall I do? Won’t you help me, Escaflow-…ne?”_

_Somehow, the whole act went unnoticed. The Tempest Dragon said nothing, made no movements—not even back-sass. Only silence._

_“Escaflowne? Hey, you left me hangin’ there, buddy…What’s the matter?”_

_No response._

_“Hey?” Arthur skirted around to see Escaflowne’s face. “Esca-…flowne?”_

_Still no response. No eye contact. No regard—or was it disregard? The dragon’s efforts to ignore Arthur were apparent by averting his eyes, looking away, and eventually snapping his jaws dangerously at him._

_“Whoa, hey! Escaflowne, what’s the matter with you? Talk to me!”_

_But what Arthur finally received made his heart sink: The most threatening screech he’d ever heard. An angry expression had contorted the Tempest Dragon’s features. His four eyes pierced the hedgehog’s deeper than ever before. It only lasted a few seconds, but Arthur found his knees knocking a bit as he waved his partner down._

_With a fluttery heart, he set down the bag and backed away. “Easy…Easy…No need to get riled up. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you…” An uneasy tinge had paled the King’s face; he could feel the dragon’s stormy gaze on him. “In fact, I’ll leave you alone, now.”—He threw his gaze to Percival and snatched her up—“Actually,_ we’ll _leave, now. Sorry, Bastet, I need to borrow your master for a second!”_

            Arthur passed the Hospice entrance. He couldn’t hear any noises or movement. Maybe Escaflowne had left somewhere? He couldn’t sense him. Bastet, however, had fallen asleep. He smacked his forehead. “Grah…I totally lied to her, didn’t I?”

            Before he could beat himself up further, the King noticed his 1st Viceroy leaving the Chapel. Familiarly. This time, their eyes met. Arthur was regarded, just as before, with the same curious glance. Lancelot waited.

            And, right on cue, Arthur jogged up to him. “Lancelot, you’re here again…Were you praying?”

            “Yes, I was,” the black hedgehog replied. “In fact, I’ve just returned.”

            “Returned? From where?”

            “You surely noticed my absence at Morning Repast, yes? That was because I was en route back from Fortuna Temple, outside of Freid’s capital Godashim. The Praktu had expected my arrival. I was able to procure the last Barrier Sword for you, Your Highness.”

_The lost Barrier Sword, Durendal, had finally reunited with its brethren. There it, Secace, Morglay, and Colada praised each other’s presence by gleaming brightly for one another. A greenish light bathed them._

            “…They are all in safekeeping within the Cathedra.”

            Arthur gawked at Lancelot. “Wait, _that’s_ why you were gone?” Blinking emeralds were only veneers for the whirlpool of confusion behind them. So many things had assailed Arthur within the past few hours already. Lancelot’s nonappearance was known by many, except Arthur—who’d apparently not noticed. To hear of the two-week side-trip now left him with a dreadful, shameful chill going down his spine.

            One that told Lancelot to move onward without him. Quite literally.

 

* * *

 

 

Afterwards, Lancelot and Arthur met up again on the Aegean Safeguard’s outskirts. They passed over the gate on dragon-back, even though Escaflowne seemed completely disinterested in whatever the Viceroy had planned. It was going to be a “soul-binding experience,” the Viceroy’s partner promised, as if to school the Tempest Dragon. With a snort, Arthur’s partner waved it off.

            A portside village caught Arthur’s attention. The lake outside the Safeguard looked like its own city: Amidst tall cypresses were thatch huts and all colors of boats. Fishing was done by the seafarers who waved to them. A barter between fishermen took place. Women reeled in nets, with youngsters looking on in admiration. One fisherman daydreamed with an infant swaddled to his back. Bright eyes locked on to Arthur’s, and a babble escaped.

            “There are people living out here, too…” Arthur’s heart melted a little at the sight of that baby.

            “Yes, and quite an array of people too, Sire.”

            Arthur had never ridden on Arysariel’s back before. Cruising through the lake made it clear that the Mist Dragon was a water lover. Gliding came as the most effortless motion; with two people saddled on him, Arysariel was just showing off. No one seemed scared by the sight of him. Like most Fauna—yet so unlike them—otters and fish welcomed the Draconian into their waters in an almost humbling manner. As if he were gracing them with his presence. Not at all prideful, he let out a compliant hum.

            The King blinked down at one of his boot heels skimming the water’s uppermost crest. Just below, fish swam. An adventurous smile crept across his face.

            “Sire?”

            Arthur threw his eyes back to Lancelot. “Yeah?” A bit unconsciously, he pulled himself closer to hear him better. His hands, pressing onto the other’s waist. His chest, closer to his back. Realizing what he’d done, he blushed furiously.

            Out the corner of Lancelot’s eye, he directed his question at Arthur: “Have you ever heard of the term ‘Dragonsoul’?”

            Arthur blinked. “Ahh…Can’t say that I have. It sounds kind of cool. What is it?”

            High above, the Tempest Dragon could still overhear the two hedgehogs’ conversation. At the mention of “Dragonsoul” he cringed. He knew what was coming next; a disgruntled dread had pulled down his maw. He sulked a bit before diving toward a field below.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after, the King, 1st Viceroy, and Arysariel rendezvoused with Escaflowne. The lakeside was clear of boats and submerged roots. Really, they had snuck behind the village. Waiting on the shore, Arthur wondered what Lancelot was going to show him. Escaflowne still looked completely disinterested—even facing away from his master.

            “I hope you know you’re being really rude, Escaflowne,” Arthur had remarked over crossed arms. The Draconian probably knew, but didn’t care. Realizing it himself, an irked vein pulsed somewhere on the King’s head. _“Stop being insufferable…!”_

            “Perhaps only your attention is needed, Sire.” To Lancelot’s barefooted advance, the water’s crest yielded. Much like a cushion, it gave way under his weight. “Don’t worry too much about Escaflowne.” Arthur was confounded by how he was doing it, but noticed when Lancelot went on to explain: “As you can see, Milord, I can walk on water. It’s partially from my Ensign’s assistance, but I can hold myself due to an inborn defect I acquired from one of my parents.”—He lifted up one of his legs, kept perfect balance, and waved him over. As Arthur approached him, he peered down at it—“I have webbed feet.”

            Fascinated, Arthur shyly took up the Viceroy’s foot to get a closer look. The big toe wiggled to show that the rest were, in fact, webbed. Slight netting was noticeable between his first toes, but not by a major degree. The soles were smooth, and he didn’t appear to be ticklish. “Wow, that’s really cool,” Arthur sighed.

            Remarkably light befuddlement overtook the black hedgehog’s face. “…Is it?”

            “Yeah! It totally makes sense, too. And don’t worry, being cool is a good thing—it means it’s awesome, slammin’, totally radical!”

            Taken by surprise, Lancelot’s befuddlement showed a bit more. “Ah…R-…‘Slamming’?”

 _Snort!_ —Arthur slapped a hand over his mouth. Blood rushed into his cheeks. _“Oh no, that was adorable—Oh, my gosh, what have I done!”_

            Arysariel’s head slipped over the crest to see Arthur’s shenanigans from afar.

            Lancelot motioned his hands in a calming manner. “Ah…Sire, are you alright?”

            “Yeah…I’m okay…So, uh…Got any other physical quirks?” Arthur grinned, unable to hide his blush anymore. He scratched the back of his head.

            It was the Viceroy’s turn to blink. “I don’t think my weirdo-brain counts, so I’ve got nothing to share, really,” he heard his co-ruler share. In a bit of a bind, Lancelot was unsure how to take the King’s compliment. Did he really think his defect was “cool”? It was honest, at best; baffling, at most. A tiny blush dampened his own cheeks; seeing those curious “mum lips” made him admire his guilelessness. Hesitantly, Lancelot mumbled, “None that I can show you, Milord.” Then, after a sharp turn, he crossed further onto the lake’s surface. “Now, let us continue.”

            A question mark bubbled over Arthur’s head. “Um…? Okay.”

            Arthur went on to watch the purely magical display. A childlike fascination had entered his eyes as Lancelot awakened his Sacred Sword, Arondight. “Lumen Fluxus: _Purgare_.” As the Viceroy danced, he slung the massive saber expertly. Beadlike droplets trailed after each swipe until they fell into a disk shape. A familiar design appeared: Three glowing crescents—white outer, yellow inner, and orange center. The mirror rippled, revealing Lancelot’s bust to Arthur. Bedazzled emeralds locked with awakening carmines. “Arondight, cleanse!” An acrobatic slice went through the mirror. The halves were absorbed by the saber’s blade; sun-like colors flashed within the steel. Lancelot fell into a balletic stance, bringing his sword to an elegant guard across his chest.

 _“The transformation sequences are_ always _fun to look at,”_ Arthur’s mind had to exhale. A sly grin upturned his face.

            “Pay attention, Milord,” Lancelot called, “because there is a second stage to this ability.” Plated shells covered his hands in charred silver. “You’ve learned how to awaken your Ensign and Sacred Weapon—unlocking Ensiform. Now,”—His Ensign engraved into both, Lancelot brought his saber’s edge into the air—“you will learn how to merge them with your Oath to Escaflowne—ascending to Draconiform.”

            Arthur threw his eyes wider. “Whoa, what?!”

            “Come—Arysariel!” the Viceroy intoned in a strong dutiful call. A large, navy triquetra on his lower-back brightened to light-blue pearl: His Oath to Arysariel. “Embrace me with mist!”

            The water dragon belted a strong cry. With the majesty of a swan, Arysariel flared his wings. The droplets that flew out swirled around him and Lancelot. At the dragon’s command, they hastened into a misty dervish. Within it, Arysariel’s body disassembled section by section, and began to plate Lancelot’s body. His tail became Lancelot’s tail—slender, ebony, with a fanned aurora fin. Netted claws became his master’s, as well. The dragon’s head moved to the Viceroy’s chest, as if to protect his heart. That knightly helm returned in demure elegance, and Arondight’s blade gleamed like the ocean at sunset. The misty dervish was dispelled at a shared dragon’s cry: Pitches married to mimic a falsetto trill.

            Beyond impressed, Arthur’s eyes glittered like a child getting excited over dessert. “So cool—totally rad!”

            After lifting his visor, a meaningful gleam skirted across Lancelot’s eyes. Deeper garnet made his eyes even more mysterious. His pupils had slivered to further resemble Arysariel.

            “You’re gonna teach me how to do _that?_ ” Arthur yelped. “ _Totally_ sweet!”

            Lancelot smirked. His newly acquired tail snaked at his calves. “Indeed…but much like before, you’ll need to form a synergistic union not only with your Ensign and Weapon, but with Escaflowne as well.” Somehow, a dual-tone resonance was emitted as Lancelot spoke. Was Arysariel speaking through him? “You will also learn how to execute attacks, defend yourself, and maneuver the environment while in Draconiform.” He showed him the Fanelian salute as half-reptilian feet balanced on the water. “Completely harnessing this power means you and your Draconian partner have merged in body, mind, and spirit. Thus, you—Lord Arthur—will have Dragonsouled.”

            “That sounds really cool…?” Arthur looked back at Escaflowne—who’d been bored to sleep, for one reason or another. “But I don’t think Escaflowne’s really feeling up to it.” His frown denoted concern more than annoyance. _“What’s up with him, anyway? He’s been like this since…?”_ His eyes sharpened. _“…The other Aerie members started behaving strangely, too. It’s like their completely different from before…? Maybe they’re—?”_

            “Be that as it may, Escaflowne has Dragonsouled in times past,” Lancelot explained, making his way to the shore. Although, he skipped atop the water doing so. “You will not be the only one, Sire. You share blood with the previous Fanelian Queens, Helene Kyrie III and Elena Aura IV. Both of whom Escaflowne has forged an Oath with.”

            Both he and Arthur noticed that broad tail swaying. A bit too eagerly to be regarded as irritated or aloof. After some guessing, a bolt of disbelief struck Arthur’s insides. It translated well into his twitching eyebrow and grinding smile. _“He perks_ right _up when he gets praised, huh?”_

            “He takes genuine pride in it, Your Highness,” Lancelot added, stepping up to the Tempest Dragon. “As one of the Fen Dragon’s offspring, he knows how weighty a duty it is on your lineage to continue their Oaths through him. With that said, he is one of the surviving kin left…”—Escaflowne allowed him to stroke his jaw—“Moloch’s line is down to four, if the younger sister is still alive.”

            “Bastet’s mother…?” Arthur whispered. He grappled a fist.

_The Nocturne Dragon seemed so afraid to be alone…_

            Escaflowne snorted, suddenly snatching his head out of Lancelot’s light hold. He peered in the distance, towards the mountains. Lancelot took note of the seriousness in his gaze; glimmers of memory flashed past the dragon’s eyes as Lancelot went on.

            “Moloch sired six children in his line of progeny. Escaflowne was his third-born, and his second son. The Adamantine Dragon, Diamant was the oldest of the six and older sister. The younger sister—the Nixie Dragon, Isis—was also the fifth-born. In between, there are the Bullion Dragon, Garza—the second-born and Valborga’s father; the Mollusk Dragon, Kyrgue—the son born between Escaflowne and Isis; and the last-born in his line, the Water Dragon, Mordred—his youngest son and Arysariel’s father.”

            Arthur nodded in understanding. With two of Moloch’s children slain, and a third possible victim being the youngest daughter, it was obvious why Escaflowne was on-edge, now. He must’ve been worrying over his sister, and mourning the siblings he lost. If Bastet was able to sense her father’s death, Escaflowne must’ve sensed his brother and sister’s deaths, right? What would happen if Isis left this world?—How would Bastet, and even Escaflowne, react?

            He wished for a way to save her themselves. Ramming up against the Zaibach Empire without a battalion or a plan would get them killed, Arthur knew. He couldn’t afford to encourage Escaflowne to charge in mindlessly. It didn’t matter how vexed or downright angry he got; Arthur needed to set up a plan, first and foremost.

            Sensing tension, Escaflowne took to the skies without a word or screech.

            “Escaflowne!” Arthur cried after him, but it was ignored. He watched the dragon’s flight path, but he’d disappeared over the trees. It seemed like he was heading back to the Castle. “Escaflowne…” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

            A solemn melody dispelled the Viceroy and Mist Dragon’s union. Magically, Lancelot was ejected from the armor and caught himself by flowing into a kneeling position. Out the corner of his eye, though, he caught Arysariel slithering into the lake.

            “Lancelot?”

            The 1st Viceroy withdrew his saber, got up, and brushed off his trousers. Purer rubies veered toward the ground. A lone ladybug inched further up a blade of grass. He showed it a more tenderhearted gaze. “The other Aerie members are very aware of each other’s temperaments—even more acutely than usual.”

            The ladybug turned about, as if it’d become suddenly disoriented.

            Lancelot frowned at it. “It is because they feel their lineage is being threatened.” As it flew off, a mist had entered the Viceroy’s eyes. “And…truthfully…it is.”

            A memory clicked in Arthur’s brain. “That’s why everyone’s on edge. They’re feeling threatened, huh…? Lancelot, have you noticed the distinct changes in the Aerie’s behavior? I mean, Escaflowne can be snarky, but it’s like he’s completely antisocial…almost distrustful towards me.”

            Lancelot’s eyes watered. “Arysariel’s been quite the coddler as of late, as well….”

            “It’s different with all of them, huh? I mean, poor Bastet is practically clinging to Percival, and Valborga—the sleepyhead of the crew—is awake and alert. It’s weird. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so…vigilant.”

            “Is that so?” He stepped closer to the lakeside.

            Arthur nodded. “According to Gawain, anyway…”

_Rolling leas opened before the 2 nd Viceroy and the Earth Dragon. Though the landscape was broken by rigid stone and granite walls, the pastures led to shepherd ranches and farm towns. One village, in particular, seemed to favor Gawain’s company. The echidna was promised a meal after his hard work, so he didn’t mind aiding in its preparations. Milking the cows, collecting the eggs, sowing the land—it all came naturally to him._

_The old man and his wife had that farm for generations, they said. She married into the property, so her maiden family sent her all their prayers. Although, she was barren and couldn’t have any “naturally occurring” assistance. So, Gawain made it a personal mission to help them when he could. The journey was never long; just a stone’s throw from the Vestiges, he’d scoff._

_Sweat had traced his jawline by the time he’d yoked the oxen. The old man needed some space to plant his maize, so Gawain dug up row upon row. Halfway through the last one, he spotted Valborga. The Draconian was awake, fully alert, almost waiting for something to happen. Was he daydreaming? Why wasn’t he asleep, like always? It made Gawain wonder for a moment until he noticed the direction Valborga was facing._

            “…He said Valborga’s attention was always pointed northeast.” A curiosity marked the King’s voice. Then, looking back at Lancelot, “What’s northeast of here?”

            “Beyond the Floresta Mountains’ southern range is Eastern Tæleth. Through the Mausolea of Viole, you’ll reach Hesroma Sound, Talis Sal’chiara, and eventually the Megalith of Guimel, if one ventures further north to cross the strait…Then, there is Zaibach.”

            “Wait—Zaibach’s _just_ beyond those mountains there?” Arthur emphasized it by pointing.

            “Lying further inland, Sire. Much further east, closer to Dilandau Mines, really…Also, within striking distance of the Duchy of Freid.”

            Suddenly spooked, Arthur threw his hands atop Lancelot’s shoulders. “Whoa, hold on! You mean to tell me you _traveled_ to Freid, even though the enemy could’ve _spotted_ you?! What were you thinking—and going off _alone,_ too?! You should’ve brought someone else with you! Arysariel, alone, can’t protect you from an _armada_ of soldiers!”

            Lancelot dabbed a tear away, and lifted his face to Arthur’s. “Forgive me for my blatant disregard, Your Highness. I simply staged a covert retrieval in efforts to obtain Durendal, Sire. It was a bit…harrowing, to say the least. Still, I humbly ask for your pardon, blesséd King.” He went down on one chivalrous knee, pressing a hand over his heart. “I shall express better consideration next time.”

            Arthur scratched behind his ear. Blushing, he muttered, “Hey, now, get up. You don’t have to kneel….”

            “I must beseech your mercy with utmost humility, Sire, as your Viceroy-Knight—hence, your second sword-and-shield.” Nonetheless, Lancelot returned to his normal posture and lowered his face once more.

            “No, you don’t.”

            Carmine eyes threw themselves forward at the King’s defiant retort. But then, they went back down. To see that his hands were linked within Arthur’s. A bit mind-boggled, the Viceroy didn’t have any words for it.

            “We’re all on the same team, sitting at the same table, aren’t we?”

            King Arthur’s calm smirk brought Lancelot out of his daydreams, out of his worries. Clean white gloves crossed into his sable ones; warmth prickled Lancelot’s palms, more than he was comfortable to admit. A just-as-warm nuzzle went to his cheek, as well. “There’s no need to humble yourself, if we’re all the same.” His King held a valid point. “I’ll admit, though…”—a smooth kiss—“You are quite pretty.”

            Lancelot’s cheeks flushed. “P-‘Pretty,’ Sire?”

            “Yup.”

            But Arthur smiled. As if it didn’t bothered him. As if those words came naturally. Somehow, Lancelot managed to look away; his eyes, drifting away in bashfulness. The blue hedgehog snickered.

            The lake shined. Coiling about just beneath its surface, Arysariel joined the otters in a happy roundabout. A somewhat proud, love-struck hum curled from his throat. In a half-sentient mimicry, so did the otters.

 

 

_Pray these Dragonborn never know this fear…_


	26. There is a mournful eloquence…in this Dragonsong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief but moderate depiction(s) of intimate contact ahead.
> 
> CONTINUE WITH CAUTION.

Event Twenty-Six

 

“What do you mean you won’t do it? This isn’t something you can disagree with, Gwynnie.” Irritation bubbled from the back of Linde’s chirr.

            Arms in a taut cross, Shamarazad didn’t appreciate the resistance Guinevere was putting up. Even so, she stayed her distance and let her teammate handle it. It wasn’t to last very long, however: She huffed under her breath.

            “I don’t care, Linde,” the bat-woman grunted. She held her head, as if to keep it from flying off her shoulders. “I…I won’t do it. I can’t face him again!”

            “Who is much worse to deal with, Guinevere? The Emperor or some lost lover?”

            “B-Both! Both are bad to deal with, but…I…He has to—!”

            “Don’t expect mercy from the Emperor, harlot,” Shamarazad snapped back mercilessly. With further derision, “He only wanted your soul, foolish girl. He doesn’t love you; he wants you to submit to him—obey him. For our lives, we promised him our bodies. He’s no creature of mercy or redemption…especially as we are now.”

            Guinevere shook feverishly. She had cringed into a fetal position. Her head began to spin. Hysteria began to overshadow her beautiful face.

            “If we go against his orders, at the crux of his preparations, he’ll throw us back into the pits we climbed out of…” The lady-echidna’s eyes narrowed, gleaming threateningly. “And I’m sure you don’t want him to abandon you, Guinevere—!”

            “No!”

 

* * *

The Fanelian Castle’s Lady Chapel welcomed Viceroy Lancelot once again. Evening starlight escaped his range of sight, but the candles kept him company. Moonlight snuck around corners and openings to take a peek at him. Dutifully entranced, the hedgehog knelt on a prayer cushion and whispered softly to no one in particular. Perhaps to the Fay, or the Albion, or the Mother Sunbird herself?

            Breaking from the psalms, Lancelot listened to the silence in the Chapel. Scores of zephyrs had cradled the sixteen-year-old suddenly. A bit confused, he looked around to see where they were coming from. His pelerine cape danced in their midst. Something wonderful had entered the gust: It felt warm, calm, somewhat longing.

            Lancelot leered back at the Chapel doors. And found King Arthur. Bemusement widened the Viceroy’s blinks; Arthur’s cool smile made his heart skip a beat. The fanciful wind captured the moment. It also snuffed out the candlelight.

* * *

 

Her screams rattled the Rose Garden. White butterflies were startled. Linde threw herself at Guinevere and restrained her. Her arms bound her waist; wild talons clawed into the ground. “Guinevere, listen to me,” the swallow squawked. “You know what the Emperor’s true intentions are! Although Shamarazad’s words burn your eyes and throat, you must persist—trudge on with us! You are his Most Beautiful Dragon Slayer—do not let his dominance topple your beauty and strength! Fight for him, Guinevere, to prove that you _are_ worthy…that you truly love him.”

            In-between gasps, Guinevere sobbed. “My…La…He’s…not coming…I died…years ago…doesn’t matter…!”

            “It matters, more than you think. He may’ve been your belovéd, but ‘tis the Emperor whom wills you to fight now. He’ll come to face you in battle, Gwynnie. Fear not.”

            “He’s…coming?” Forlorn turquoises sparked back to life. Though, something was off about it. It made Shamarazad throw her quarterstaff into the earth. A crescent-shaped dowel pinned her wrists to the soil. The echidna’s glare softened as she watched her teammate shiver and drool. “Coming, he’s…M-My belovéd?”

            “That’s right, Gwynnie.”—Linde exchanged nods with Sharamazad—“He’s coming, so he can face you in battle”—A capped syringe made its way into Linde’s hands—“to see you,”—She plucked the cap off and spat it away—“and only you…”—Linde caressed Guinevere’s arm—“one last time.”

            More feverish by the second, Guinevere squirmed in her wrists’ restraint. Heavy panting doubled as groaning. “Will I…get to kill him?”

            A light emanated from the lady-bat’s chest. Shamarazad had no choice but to force her boot’s sole onto Guinevere’s neck. The swift movement kept Guinevere’s head down, as well as immobile. Tiny giggles churned from the girl’s throat; Shamarazad growled. “It’s started to trace her consciousness. Prick her already, Linde!”

            “I know, don’t worry, Shamara-dear…” the swallow twittered softly.

            Furrowed brows deepened: Guinevere’s tongue lolled out of her mouth as even heavier panting escaped. Shamarazad looked away from what Linde moved in to do. “The Emperor grants you good Fortune, my lovely Guinevere. Just know that he is not the only one who ‘loves’ you….”

            _Pinch!_

            An alarmed yelp leapt from Guinevere’s throat. Griping moans followed. Her eyes wandered around dizzily inside their sockets. Disorientation made her lose her balance; she slipped out of her kneel and onto the ground.

            “Fight it, Guinevere…!” Linde tossed away the syringe. Her voice shook; she was imploring her. “You must fight the Toxic Blood and tame it! Make it yours—make it bow to _you!_ The Emperor is testing you, your resolve _and_ your strength!” She crawled on top of her and snipped at Guinevere’s waning ego. “You must prove your worth, like you always have! Make him entrust his power to you! Fight your enemies, like you always have! Fight that bastard, like you always have!” Linde groped Guinevere’s breasts, leaning closer to her scent, to her whimpering. Guilt dissolved the tactician’s heart, and she succumbed to the feelings she’d kept imprisoned by her pride. “We will fight with you—Shamara and I. After all is lost and nothing is gained, we will be here.”

            The light from Guinevere’s chest throbbed. The woman suffered from the constricting ache, but she managed to chuckle. Tears streamed from her eyes, even as she did so. Shamarazad had taken her foot off her neck and clenched her staff tighter. She snarled. Sad hiccups, moans, and whines crawled past her teammate’s lips. Linde kept pumping a palm around Guinevere’s breast, massaging it tenderly. As a tactic to relax her, as well as stimulate the drug’s potency in her bloodstream. Albeit aroused, Guinevere’s consciousness couldn’t decipher what was going on. Linde’s whispers sounded sweet, but sad. She even nuzzled her as her mind went darker and darker. Hands moved up and down the Dragon Slayer’s voluptuous chest; her strength collapsed, in a sideward heap, against Linde.

            Her wrists were suddenly free. The echidna had muttered something under her breath: “Pitiful whores…” Turquoises didn’t stay on her. They hazed before somehow seeing Linde’s tears. She just couldn’t understand anything she was saying. “Even as he continues to betray you, just know that I never will… _my lovely Guinevere.”_

_I am no longer the maiden I had been. I am no longer the woman you fell in love with. I will never be the bride you prayed for. I am a disgrace. I have fallen and landed right in the lap of false light._

_Smile for me, my brave Lancelot. I may never love you again, but neither may you me. I loved your smile so much. I wish I could see it again…Maybe_ it _can break this spell._

_I want to be proposed to, brave knight, with Osiria roses in hand._

_But stay away, brave knight—and run while you can._

* * *

 

Activity buzzed around Fanelia. Normal daily activities took place, though most of the capital’s citizens didn’t know what to make of the increase in security. Red-tasseled captains paraded the streets with green-leafed squires. Including Sir Lamorak, catching sight of a returning hawk envoy.

            Inside the Castle, Nimue scurried down the hall. Her sky-blue slippers tapped against the marble. Her bluebell skirt flounced with every step. Jogging in place, she pulled out a letter from her redbird bag, then made her way into the Doyen’s office.

            “Doyen! Mail for you!”

            Gustavio looked up from his papers to see the pink hedgehog prancing in. At his desk, she curtsied. “It’s from Asturia, Sir,” and presented him a gilt-stamped letter. Antiquated paper hid a glittery undercoat. Mostly ginger, Gustavio registered the letter as a “matter that required immediate attention”—a grade under emergency status. Anxiously, Nimue played with her skirt hem. Gustavio took out the letter, unrolled it, and held it taut to slowly skim through it. His eyebrows quirked; a huff, and a hum. “If I may, what does it say, Doyen?” Nimue had to ask.

            Gustavio closed his eyes for a moment. “It seems King Asturia has granted asylum to the Water Dragon, Mordred.”—The girl’s ears perked up—“Apparently, he was able to escape the Dragonhunts, and circumnavigated Merle Lake until it was clear to retreat into the sea.”

            “You mean Mordred swam all the way to Asturia from Merle Lake?” Nimue gasped. “That’s _thousands_ of _gidors_ away! He must’ve swam a long time—since Værsol’s Crest, at least!”

            “Yes. He arrived exhausted and panicked, the King says. I’m sure there are caretakers seeing to him in his palace, now. Nursing the Water Dragon back to health is a concern for all of us. If he dies, he’ll become an indirect casualty in Zaibach’s efforts—an unmarked triumph.” Gustavio folded the letter and set it inside a drawer. “This is news neither the Aerie nor even Sir Lancelot needs to hear right now. I’ll leave it here until the time is right.”

            Watching the albatross leave his seat, Nimue hesitated. Her eyes filled with worry, she stopped him. “B-But Doyen…the Water Dragon, Mordred is Arysariel’s father. Wouldn’t it be wrong to withhold an update like that?”

            “‘Tis all the more reason we must keep it away from him. Should Arysariel be made aware—if he isn’t already—it could trigger panic in the other Aerie members.” Gustavio folded his hands behind his back.

            Nimue lowered her head, considering in the Doyen’s words.

            “So far, every one of them has been affected: Valborga’s mother is now deceased. Bastet’s father is now deceased, with her mother missing under an unknown status. That said, three of Moloch’s offspring have been assailed. Although it’d be of consolation to notify Escaflowne on his youngest brother’s whereabouts, we could needlessly burden him if he learns that he is too weak to fend for himself.” His hands’ hold on each other tightened. “Escaflowne is an instinctual fighter. He’s gotten better over the centuries, I’m sure. But…” Turning to face Nimue, he walked up to her and tilted her chin up. At such teary-eyed compassion, he smiled. “There is a story behind Escaflowne’s relatively easygoing attitude, my dear.”

* * *

 

_“Really? There is, Doyen?”_

_“Yes. Once upon a time, he was actually quite a grouch. Distant, uncaring, even apathetic, at times, towards Earthborn like us. But his chance encounter with our first Queen, Mother Larynn Selbadeir, became a tale of destiny and redemption.”_

            Headmaster Alfred departed from a meeting room in the Knighthood Institution. A panel of associates had attended his official farewell, respecting his wish for an honored trustee to take up his position. A lady-mink of Sir Mikhail’s resemblance curtsied deeply to the waving Headmaster.

            A royal carriage awaited his return. Kindly, a pair of escorts assisted him into the carriage. Soon enough, he was on his way back to Fanelia Castle. On Gustavio’s behest.

            Upon arrival, in the Pergola, the Deputy Consul-General was greeted by his co-general. Swiftly, both the cat and albatross made their way back to their offices.

            Strong battle cries echoed from the stairs leading into the Barracks. A single cry was followed by a chorus of several dozens. A bit caught off-guard, Alfred wiped away a nervous sweat drop. To it, Gustavio smirked. “Ahh, the sound of hard work,” Gustavio huffed with pride. “Sir Gawain’s regiment must be progressing smoothly. That’s a cry of intense focus and unwavering duty.” He even pumped a fist. “It makes me proud. Even his newest recruits have blended in well.”

            “Ah, indeed, Doyen,” the Maine coon sighed. “Tell me. Did little Lamorak have any qualms with the sudden switch? He trains under the Cavalier style, despite both you and Gawain practicing under the Paladin style…?”

            “That much is so, but I’ve trained Lamorak to utilize skills outside the range of physical strength, just as I’ve done for Gawain. So, I’m simply passing my torch. Lamorak will learn as much as Gawain will, at this pace. I’m sure they’ll, at least, show some decorum in each other’s presence. Gawain’s a bit too rambunctious for little Lamorak!” the old bird guffawed.

_2 nd Viceroy-Knight Gawain forwarded the group’s training to assist Lamorak in his stances. The hawk seemed displeased by the sight of him; Gawain countered with a throbbing slap on his back. Another couple pats went into solidifying his legs’ position. To remind him that “apart” centered his balance better than “together.”_

_Squire Mikhail happened to be within eyeshot; he giggled a little at Lamorak’s snobbish clucks._

            Inside a separate training room, Squire Galahad’s request to challenge his teacher, 1st Viceroy-Knight Lancelot, had been approved. Mutual space separated them. With Lancelot’s back to him, Galahad saw him raise a hand to the back wall. A wavering grayish-blue gleam coated the walls—much like the spell Gustavio had used to contain Arthur’s wind magic. Galahad refocused on his master’s stance.

            But his master had gone in a flash. Whitewash had carried Sir Lancelot across the training field like a blustery wind. Saber blade prone, an elegant slash was countered by the Squire’s quick wit. Even with his weak parry, Galahad escaped the Viceroy’s strike.

            Metal soles scraped against the stone. A slivering cyan light flickered within Galahad’s gauntlets. Those magical emblems were gathering energy without much awareness.

            “Be wary of your surroundings, Galahad,” Lancelot careened around. As a brave taunt, he hinted his prowess and magic control by skating around the arena. “You almost fell outside the boundary line.”

            “Master…?” The Squire had no time to rebut. Another sword strike, and another dodge. Getting out of the way, a reminder clicked in Galahad’s mind. “If I may, how is Arysariel doing?”

            A nearly balletic lunge brought Lancelot and his student face-to-face. Rapid currents extended it by a few more leaps. From his arabesque, he answered accordingly. “Ah, so you’ve heard? Are you asking on Sir Mikhail’s behalf?”

            “Yes, master.”

            Arondight collided with the Squire’s practice sword. In turn, it begged for forgiveness as its snapped edge went flying. Galahad gasped; Lancelot huffed. Recovering himself, the student staggered away. He checked his sword’s condition and saw that it was grave. The alarmed gasp was drowned out by Lancelot’s whitewater-fast charge.

            “Then relay this response to him…after you wake up.”

            Blindsided canaries wobbled in a daze. Soft whispers were barely caught. Where did that attack strike? Galahad’s head throbbed as it spun. Support for his back solidified, finding himself in his master’s arms. He kept his eyes as steadily as he could on his master’s lips.

            “As for you, your writ of challenge has disserved you. You cannot defeat me with your current strength. You still aren’t ready.”

 

* * *

Lord Percival was the leader of a two-line troupe of female soldiers. Guarded by faceplates, breastplates, and mailed skirts Fanelian crests emblazoned white aprons and survival bags. A familiar nurse, Brynn, seemed to be toting a camper on her back. They jogged with skirts hiked, having left the Castle’s Gladiolus Stadium. Percival didn’t exclude herself from the excursion; she donned a pack and armored skirt, as well.

            “Ladies, follow me. From here, we’ll make our way outside the Aegean Safeguard itself. The terrain will be rough and shadowed; this will be a test of endurance and courage!” She led the troupe with her Sacred Sword, Laevetein. “Onward! We are the 1st class of Our Great Kingdom’s Medical Infantry Unit—we are the Saints of Panacea! Brave through it, and conquer your fear!”

            The women’s battle-cry clamored over their heartfelt march. They bypassed the Castle Infirmary to leave through the main corridor.

            From there, before its doors, Nimue waved the women off. A hopeful smile upturned her lips. _“One day, I’ll be strong enough to join, too!”_

            She crept back into the Infirmary. She blinked curiously before tiptoeing back to Galahad’s bedside. The wind had been knocked right out of him, she was able to surmise. Another session with Master Lancelot gone awry, she sighed in her mind. Was he still not strong enough? It was understandable, since he was the Kingdom’s 1st Viceroy-Knight. Doyen Gustavio was even stronger than him—and he was technically retired.

            A look of discontentment soured the Squire’s expression. Nimue knew that Galahad had a special power. It was something none of his mentors or superiors could identify, but one Galahad had christened himself: With a lot of thought and theory, he named his Ensign “Cyrr’den”—for “Overmind,” he explained. Like the old adage “Mind over matter.” It was a hypothesis that hooked Chancellor Miles’s interest. Perhaps with more extensive study and examinations, he could unlock Galahad’s magic block and help him understand his powers better. From what the Squire gathered in the past, this new ability allowed him to lift objects with his mind.

            A mysterious ability. Maybe that was why Lancelot hadn’t given up on him. He wanted to see his Ensign develop, too.

            For now, though, Nimue watched over him on his master’s behest. She remembered the mild disappointment in the Viceroy’s face. Nonetheless, he had to keep Galahad as his pupil. Danger was looming, and the Squire had to be ready to become a Noble Forces soldier quite soon. Nimue’s face adopted Lancelot’s worried gaze. A momentary concern: “Is Galahad ready to fight?” she asked herself.

            Only for a wounded gaze to meet hers. She gasped, slapping both hands on her mouth.

            “All’s well, milady,” the Squire insisted as he sat up, “I know I need to get stronger.” He furrowed his brows. “I’m not to disappoint my Liege or my mentor. They’ve instilled their faith in me, as I have in them. I must reciprocate that trust with results…” His hand became a fist. Frustration simmered from its pot. “I mustn’t let them down. I’d be of no use to them, as a soldier.”

            “Well, if it helps any, Sir Galahad…” Nimue put her hands around his fist. “If you don’t become a knight to the Kingdom, you can…umm…?” She fidgeted a bit. “What I mean is…you’ll have more time to practice if you’re here, instead of out on the battlefield. What if something happens and your powers don’t work? You’ll be hurt without a way to protect yourself!” She suddenly sounded frightened. “There’s a lot we don’t understand about your Ensign. Maybe if you stay behind a little longer, you’ll unlock its secrets.” His fist had relaxed, and now rested in her hands.

            The wind billowed in: Wispy drapes swayed. Potted flowers were rocked to sleep. The clean sheets’ hems rippled.

            “An Ensign is supposed to be nature’s voice, right? And the symbol is supposed to be a language all its own. According to its design, what does your Ensign say, Galahad?”

            Galahad looked to his hands for an answer: The tops were branded by hollowed circles. Intricate henna dyed them in that same serene glow. It felt certain whenever he used it. He felt confident, sure of himself, composed. Whatever he took up with that power he felt he could control. But how would he use it in a pinch? Fighting on the battlefield was the fastest way to learn; it was the scariest to Nimue, he understood.

            Especially since she cared for him so much, tending to his wounds and sicknesses the most.

            It was like she insisted sometimes. She’d asked Brynn, the Head Nursemaid, to tend to him whenever he was sick or injured. War was at their door. How would she be able to tend to him if he was so far away?

            His thoughts wandered as Nimue changed his water. A washcloth relinquished its water load to her wringing. The fast droplets snapped him out of it.

            “My Ensign…says, ‘Take hold, and have faith’…in myself, I suppose.”

            “Well, do you?”

            Galahad found Nimue’s eyes locked with his. Her eyes held an unwavering courage in them. A bit blindsided by their closeness, he jumped a little. Her hands felt warm. Brave. Brimming with a strong belief in his abilities and aptitude. He’ll get it, they chanted, he’ll figure it out soon.

            Wait. Maybe those were her actual thoughts?

            “Please…Don’t give up, okay?” she affirmed him with bleary eyes.

            Galahad’s heart trembled. Then, he threw his eyes shut. Just as affirming, he retorted, “I cannot give up. I will not give up. I must cherish this mysterious gift the heavens have bestowed upon me. I must understand its language, its power…so that I can protect what’s precious to me…this Mighty Kingdom, and its people…!” His fist had returned.

            It was more determined than the one before. Nimue’s tears couldn’t hold on.

            Then, from it back to her, Galahad’s eyes branded a promise upon her memory. “So that I can protect you, milady.”

            A sheepish gasp. Nimue’s cheeks flooded with astonishment. She found herself across his lap and in his arms, somehow. Had he lifted her without touching her? His fingers raked into her pink tresses. In them, anxiety. In his grunts, fear. In his eyes, teardrops and willpower. Somewhere in her heart, the thirteen-year-old was elated to see his courage shine through. So soon, to boot. All he needed was a good pep talk, right?

            “Oh, Sir Galahad…I’m so proud of you.” She snuggled against him.

            Suddenly, a draft coursed through the room. It snuffed out the candle nearby. It teased the girl’s skirts. It made her gasp a bit, just as Galahad threw his eyes out the window. He caught a glint of darker shadows. A black metallic sheen. He furrowed his brows again.

            “Whew…It must be Arysariel’s turn for evening clarion.”

            A timid kiss—Galahad leapt in his skin. His spines bristled from the tiny peck of warm softness. The squire’s blush grew; the messenger’s giggle was bubbly. 

* * *

 

_“I wonder what he’ll sing for us tonight…?”_

            Sir Lancelot listened for Arysariel. He awaited in Snapdragon Sanctuary. Athol’s Timepiece alluded to the prolonging evening. Lush shrubbery concealed his figure well. For the time being, he did not wish to be seen. To be spoken to. Or regarded whatsoever. He sat in the song’s midst. He knew which one it was, since it was meant for him.

            A melancholic rendition of the Spiriting Prayer. Vibratos bounced in the residents’ ears. A passerby or two happened to notice the quality, as well. “Such a sad Prayer,” one man uttered to another gentleman.

            “Momma, why does the dragon sound sad?” the little girl asked as her mother tucked her in. But her mother was at a similar loss as she was. “I don’t know, dear,” she saw the look of worry on her face. “I’ve never heard the Prayer sung that way before….”

            Lancelot’s tears couldn’t hold themselves back anymore. They knew it was too late to retreat: Preparations for war had begun. It was never ill-advised, but it was something the Viceroy considered a last resort. Conflict with Zaibach was inevitable. They had directly threatened the Draconian Aerie, Moloch’s children, and even killed two of them. The surviving offspring were under extraordinary peril, and it was the sibling-Kingdoms’ duty to protect them.

            That was never the issue for Lancelot, however. It was far worse. Someone he wasn’t ready to face. Someone he wasn’t ready to fight—and perhaps kill. It made him grieve like a widowed husband. It made his body ache and tremble. His grunts hissed through his teeth.

            Realizing such an insurmountable moment made him cry to no one but himself.

 

 

_It even makes the strongest of us weep…_


	27. This war has no name yet…but our hearts tremble, nevertheless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Moderate depiction(s) of violence, murder/genocide, blood/gore, swearing, and moral unsoundness ahead.
> 
> CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Event Twenty-Seven

 

The Emperor remained in the Ark of Vione, in that hollowed central altar. Its four pools glittered cleanly. Beneath each body was a dimly lit pattern. Each one, very familiar to him. The water swelled at his kneel. Now, one elegant hand slipped through it. While the other clenched the Scabbard. Dark eyes inspected it.

            “This…is an exorbitant bit for an Oath, Dearest Lord.”

            The Sacrilege Dragon, Alseides had kept him within his jaws the whole while. With no need for nourishment or relief, Emperor Delvander Judas simply minded the mighty Draconian. That tainted sheath kept every single drop of blood, and warded off death’s beckoning knock. He turned his eyes to the dragon’s Earthborn protrusion. Magnificent eyelashes never moved, not even a flitter. That featureless pate gleamed like marble. A statue’s envy, it was so white. It almost bore a ghost’s quality. It made the Emperor smile.

            “Nevertheless, still very fetching,” he marveled it. “My blood sanctifies your reawakening. Every drop brings you that much closer to your true form…?” He felt the dragon’s hungry rumble. “The four outer components to your resurrection are just as important…Although, I’ve no time any unnecessary egotism.” He brought the Scabbard closer to his chest. And smirked. “Let us see how they’re faring, shall we?”

* * *

 

Strategos Damocles oversaw the administration of Fortune. Fortune, in its barest nature, was a transfusion between Earthborn blood and Draconian blood. It could be considered strictly forbidden, as it descended from the vorarephilic practices involving Draconian entrails. Although, it was surely unheard of by the Western masses.

            Since it was a brainchild of none other than the Strategos himself.

            He had to admit—it wasn’t a simple procedure. An absolute formula had to be used, and it was perfected after many flawed calculations and countless corpses: Nine parts Earthborn, one-part Draconian. Dragon blood was thicker than a person’s, and toxic shock occurred if too much of it was transfused. Scientific advancements made him more aware of it, thankfully. Less failures ensued, but there was a critical component missing in the equation.

            He’d figured out that the Nymphus Nox were a special exception to this conundrum. “Ah-hah!” he had lauded, “Their Ensigns are the key!”

            But for him to pursue that hypothesis he needed to experiment: Crima Claw technology went into birthing their Infidel Weapons, and each woman awakened said weapons almost flawlessly. Their Ensigns had aligned just fine; now he needed “placebos.”

            The test had begun, and it ended in less than five minutes. Heartrendingly, the Nymphus Nox had proven their endurance against the new blood. Damocles had found the key.

            Now, the Dragon Slayers awaited their dosage of Fortune. It was a bond much closer than the Western Kingdoms could imagine. Linde grunted a bit as her blood was being taken. Shamarazad watched one of the white-coated physicians putting her vial along with an inversely labeled one.

            The Strategos entered the sound of whirring centrifuges. Ever pristine in cape and coat, the albino echidna brushed a spine away from his face. “Wonderful,” he praised, “simply wonderful!” He peered at each Nymphus Nox. A cruel gleam flashed through his eyes. “We’re in good time for a trial run for your new Stealth Cloaks, ladies. The Nocturne Dragon, Isis has made a fruitful contribution to our cause, but she’s to rest until her priceless coat regenerates. Though, I can’t say it will be soon…Till then, handle your Cloaks with care, if you please.”

            A silent consensus. Then, a flare through Damocles’ nerves made his awareness spike. “Sire! Ah, you’ve heard the good news, I take it?” he grinned, seemingly and grandly bowing to no one.

            “Indeed, I have. You have my praise, Strategos Damocles.”

            “Ahh! Much obliged, Your Imperial Highness!”

            “Hm. How is Guinevere faring?”

            “I've quite the attractive report, Sire. Let me see, right here…”

            From there, he welcomed the technicians that filed in. Two to each girl, the centrifuges stopped, and the vials were removed. Guinevere noticed, past her blurred vision that their upper labels opposed the lower labels. Gloved hands took her black-labeled blood up into a syringe. Slow, methodically slow. Almost as if not doing so would release a monster. The hands didn’t shake; their voice sounded apathetic. One buckled her to the gurney.

            Shamarazad didn’t fight her injection. She never bothered denying the fact that the mad scientist had clearance to inject her with a fraction of her partner’s blood. In a way, she felt stronger than she’d ever did in her life. A dragon’s power went unmatched in her homeland’s culture. Seen as earth-treading emissaries to the worlds beyond, how could she question or deny such power? At the very least, she felt closer to the Eon Dragon, Pallastheia that way. She smiled a little under the syringe’s prick.

            Linde listened as her dosage went in.

            “Dragon Slayers: Your 1st phase is not over just yet.” The Emperor’s words came with grave imperativeness. “There is one more Aerie we’ll need to dispose of. It appears that the Bullion Dragon, Garza has barricaded himself within the Valris Mountains. He has traveled under night’s cover to bastion himself inside the Earthblood Cavity—to mourn Diamant, I gather.”—Shamarazad remembered quietly—“I’m certain the Monastery’s Prelate will not permit us to invade such sacred ground…So we will bombard it, instead.”

            “Sire?” Linde gasped, “As in…destroy it?”

            “…Does that disquiet you, Linde Chruzna?”

            A startled gasp, then a slap on her mouth. Ice-blue eyes quivered a little nervously before closing. Coming to her senses, she shook her head.

            “Strategos, complete the procedure. Then, deploy the Oreades and Chafaris. The Dragon Slayers will resume their hunt with General Quu, thereafter General Gein will move in to destroy the Bullion Dragon…I care not about Valrisian casualties. See to the Prelate’s survival, though. We’ll need his Signature to Diamant, as well as information on the others.”

            The chief tactician bowed in noteworthy grandiose. “Rest assured, Your Marvelous Excellency. I will see to the Prelate’s safety. I predict a covert pre-operation will insure his seizure, and I propose your own Linde Chruzna at its helm.” A sneaky grin. “If I may so suggest, Your Eminence.”

            Linde spoke not a word to his mockery. Though blatant, she keep her eyes away. They even wandered towards Guinevere; the bat-woman’s deep huffs sounded exhausted. A bitter twinge made her eyes snap back into focus. Back on the Emperor’s next words.

            “Permission granted.”—The swallow flinched—“You have clearance, my Most Intelligent. This mission is yours. Report back to the Strategos after its completion. That is all.”

            “Ho!” Her dutiful salute was the old man’s envy. Dead memories arose with new life before declaring in bold conviction, “Under your trussed glory, Emperor.”

* * *

Elsewhere in the Imperial Fortress, the Emperor’s plans began to set their gears into motion. Soldiers in rusty oxblood armor filed in alongside bruised iron ones. Adequate manpower was needed for the operation, especially under the command of Zaibach’s “Most Intelligent” Dragon Slayer. Linde monitored the Copper and Iron formations. At each side were the Iron General’s navigator, Lhugo, and a copper-decorated soldier of identical rank—a fellow wildcat like both his commander and Silver General. Helming each formation were Generals Adelphos Gein and Zodia Quu, respectively.

            Under-breath updates and requests were made into Linde’s ear. Calculations ticked back and forth between them. Each General’s soldiers marched into their respective massive sky-fortresses. The tall, looming lion stared daggers into each soldier, to ensure no flimsiness. The Oreades held no room for cowards, he’d remark as a scare tactic. A similar mentality was carried by Zodia Quu, as well. Instead of “showing them mercy,” however, he snuffed out the cowards by marking up his casualties—when incurred. At his losses, there was no sympathy. Cowards always fall at a battle’s forefront, he’d say heartlessly, even if tolls went up to 20%. So, any pallid knaves would be literally marching to the deaths by boarding the Chafaris.

            Wily like a fox, the Iron General winked at Linde and entered his sky-fortress. The lady-swallow led her teammates in his wake. She routed them to the fortress’s lower level, where their Draconian partners lay in wait. To their respective dragons, each woman saddled herself on and strapped down.

            From her position, Linde commenced the operation. “Mission start. General, to our first objective. Proceed on Path Aleph-Waw, maintaining an adaptable altitude.”

            “Aye-aye, lassie,” the badger crooned. There was a mixture of bitterness and disbelief in his rasp.

 _“Remain stationed 700_ gidors _slow of the Chafaris until a green signal is given,” Linde had instructed to the Copper navigator._

            After some twilight coasting, the Chafaris docked between a pair of craggy zeniths. Metal plates shingled outward onto an icy banister. Just at its foot was a regaled elder. Owl down bristled at the cold blast, as well as the sight of the Iron General. From under the flagship’s cover, the Dragon Slayers moved in on the mountainside. They burrowed deeper in, and revisited a previous burrow to make it back into the Earthblood Cavity.

            From the fortress’s rear a green light flickered. And the countdown began.

 _“The operation should be no longer than 450_ miets _. Should it exceed the time limit, you are to proceed after a yellow signal has been given. Once the Chafaris has departed, get into position directly over the Monastery; obliterate the settlement without question. Your commander is in charge of the Strategos’ latest weapon: The Energist Bomb.” She handed him a red-button trigger._

            As Erismene clamored through blood-red narrows, Linde remembered his nerve-wracked reflection. Her cold daggers had skewered him. It was going to be the General pressing the trigger, not him. But she could tell he was afraid; not much older than a green-leafed knight. Gold-rank orders were executed without hesitation, she knew—a seasoned fighter, herself. _“He’s just a kid,”_ she memorized. The Father’s chest cavity was close by. _“Even more so, a lamb to the slaughter…”_

            The three women could smell dragon’s blood.

_Nervous coals met frigid blues. “It is the official commencement of this war, Chief Navigator Marks—with or without the Prelate in our custody. Regardless, this is more than enough firepower to annihilate the settlement.”_

            Higher on the main terrace, negotiations with the Prelate were falling through. Iron General Zodia Quu did his—worst—trying to coerce the owl onto his ship. Not-too-strong pulls only made the Avian man squawk and squabble with him. He played along, even throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, he’s obstinate,” he muttered slyly. A final underhanded warning received a huff and a fluff. Then, the badger gave up, ordering his soldiers to haul the old man onto the ship. Some became emboldened and raided the vaults and bedchambers. Defenders were slain; acolytes were taken out swiftly. Sooner than later, they and their commander disembarked from the Monastery.

            All according to Linde’s plan.

            Crunch time was established by the yellow flash.

            Copper General Adelphos Gein took note of it. “Alright, I got the old man. Your turn, matey Adelphos,” the much-older badger laughed. “Do us proud.”

            But his Chief Navigator had a major qualm. Enough to make his voice crack, “Please, sir, the Dragon Slayers are still in there! Shouldn’t we await their return—?!”

            But the adult lion’s manly paw had grasped the trigger. Critical sapphires were inwardly scanning the instructions Linde had left him. Her voice chimed like a frozen bell in his mind. Slowly, the device slept in his hand.

            “General…but, the girls…?”

            Dread had chiseled the younger male’s features, now. His heart had visibly dropped. The color drained from his face. His hands clenched, only to become trembling fists.

            “Navigator Darius Marks. What authority have you to concern yourself with them?”

            Coals shook now.

            “Just trust. This mission will succeed. Worry for your own hide…Then again, we’re all meant to die, aren’t we?” The General’s irises were bold lake crests. “The timing and manner are in our hands, now. Let us seize control of it while we’ve still yet to die ourselves.”

            A cruel undertone had frayed his latest remark. Various other machinations moved and clanked. “Energist Cradle, set to deploy,” one black-uniformed informant relayed. “Projected Fortress Path: Mirror of Path Aleph-Waw, with marginal Path Beth-Heh deviation. Projected Cradle Touchdown: Less than 0.5 _miets_.”

            “Hold the Oreades at another 17,000 _gidors_ on Path Beth,” the stocky lion ordered. “We’ll need the altitude to escape the shockwave. Reduce furnace heat by 1100 degrees, and maintain temperature.”

            “Sir!” Another soldier followed the order.

            Panic set itself in the Chief Navigator’s eyes. Pooling charcoals prayed for a way for the survivors to escape. Had they seen the sky-fortress, despite the night’s deadness? The engines ran as smooth as butter, and the levitation rocks emitted no noise at all. The flagship pulsed with a reddish oil sheen. The acolytes had to have seen it, if their mentors hadn’t. Among most sanctimonious men were boys two-thirds their junior. One boy he’d remembered from his youth. _“I’m going to spread Our Mother’s Voice throughout the lands!” the boy had said happily._ The copper-pinned navigator clutched his knees.

            “We’ve reached optimum altitude, sir,” the previous informant announced. “Current altitude: 17,000 _gidors_ on Path Beth. We are in perfect sagittal alignment with the Monastery. Permission to disengage Energist Cradle?”

            The Gold-Class Dragon Slayer’s words echoed down the General’s mental checklist. Everything was done; he let out a content huff.

            “Please, sir! Don’t release the bomb—my friend is down there!” The young soldier grappled the taller man’s arm. The difference in bulk made him ignore his gut’s anxious hiccup. Snarling, “I won’t let you kill my friend! I won’t—!”

**SLAM!**

            The navigator was out cold. Terrifyingly brute strength sent him against the metal wall at their backs. A slow lift didn’t sink into the youth’s awareness fast enough. Slammed back-first, the gray lion yelped in pain before falling silent. Such deftness defied the man’s physical stature. But, after paying many dues to the Empire, Copper General Adelphos Gein had earned his survival—and a place in the Emperor’s inner circle. Cobalt pools watched as the young man slid down and crumpled to the floor.

            “Little fool, I’ll not cancel this mission over one useless boy,” he spat out derisively. “He’s merely a casualty in our Emperor’s campaign. Such is this miserable, decrepit lot…!” He lifted the trigger in a coercive manner. “Permission granted. Leave this to me.”

            “Understood, sir.”

            “Energist Cradle, disengaged.” The soldier monitored the gauges set before him. “The Energist Bomb’s main garter is left. Resonance is set to begin shortly. Descent must begin within one _miet_.”

            The General’s thumb itched. A refined grade of madness had entered the man’s eyes. “I haven’t felt like this in a long while…!” His lake crests had turned to mad torrents. “Commencing bomb drop.”

            On his signal, an orichalcum globe fell from its girdle. It hurdled quickly towards the Valrisian Monastery. Seven blood-red orbs were encased inside. Tightness closed in on them via inner mechanisms. Three were extracted from the Mollusk Dragon, another three from the Adamantine Dragon, while the last was taken from Bastet’s mother. Fierce glows throbbed. It pushed through the orichalcum’s luster. It looked like a pounding heart, falling from the star-laden sky.

            “Massacre them.”

            And the unforgiving explosion had no choice but to obey.

 

* * *

The Duchy of Freid quaked. A violent red aura lit the northwestward peaks. Fortuna Temple monks rose to the concussion and pooled into the central courtyard. The wisest of them—the five Praktu—convened with their underlings to provide solace. One—a beautiful abbess of indistinguishable age—allowed a handful of vestals to cower against her bosom. A silent prayer, and her _shakujō_ whispered for a glimmer of moonlight.

            “Was that an earthquake?”

            “But what is that light—there, in the distance,” one monk pointed.

            “It’s red…! What could it be?”

            “Another Zaibach devilcraft, I suspect…”

            “ _Sheik pleïkh’shihmmi._ ” Another _shakujō_ swayed, its six rings clinging gently. An older man, not quite as old as Gustavio, came to the congregation’s forefront. His staff’s gold knob pecked with his every step.

            The Temple’s male and female acolytes huddled together in confidence. The youngest of them had encircled the abbess’s feet.

            Addressing their fear, the man spoke: “Our Mother Sunbird will guide our shields to us. I trust in her, for she has lain her powers and blessings upon said shields. Those shields shall come bearing mighty swords and fierce resolve, under her heavenly aegis.”—Fear dissolved at the peeks of cracking smiles—“One mighty sword will be Sir Lancelot Malfreid, a lost brother-in-spirit. As I have seen, he is strong in his body and faith. The news of our Eldest Sister’s newly instated king comes late to us, but has come, nonetheless!” He brought his staff over his head. “Now, my brothers and sisters, let us pray….”



* * *

 _Whrr—_ “…spond…Dragon Slay…respond.”

            Blood stained Linde’s forehead. Guinevere clung to her waist from underneath. Shamarazad had thrown herself over them to shield them from falling rubble. Though knocked unconscious, the lady-echidna stayed in her defensive kneel. The Fortune coursing through them began to kick in.

            “…Arise: My Most Powerful, Shamarazad Carmen.”—Her Gungnir-shaped Ensign, Summa Metallon, brightened suddenly and sharply. A dark energy shimmered underneath its sard gleam.

            “…My Most Intelligent, Linde Chruzna.”—The tactician’s Biter-Is Ensign glowed just-as-darkly in an icy blue Elven star.

            “…And my Most Beautiful, Guinevere Dahlia.”—The lady-bat’s triple goddess marking pulsed with a dark light, like the others. Her Lethem Heme Ensign gave off a more magenta aura before fading in unison with her teammates’.

 _Whoo_ —“Your phase is complete, girls. Sever the Bullion Dragon’s survival, should you find him alive.”

            Nothing more was said. Replacing the Emperor’s silence were woeful laments. The Cavity had darkened. Lustrous veneers were dirtied by its collapse. Linde had unknowingly grasped one of the Energists. It crumbled in the gentle squeeze, and disbelief overtook her face. She threw her sights to the source of a nearby wail. Her heart dropped; she couldn’t believe her eyes.

            So she asked her partner. “Do you see what I see, Eris? Are…Are those Undines?”

            From within her helm, she heard the Brume Dragon’s affirmative hum.

            “But why are they here? Has it to do with the Dark One’s presence here?” Shamarazad threw away the boulder on top of her. A massive shield, resembling her Crima Weapon’s battleax form, disengaged from both forearms. Her quarterstaff morphed back into its original shape; her instinct to protect her teammates manifested so strongly that it activated her Draconiform.

            As did Guinevere’s and Linde’s. Both rose to their feet, hand in hand. A visible paleness had entered Guinevere’s face. Especially when she clung to Linde’s arm. The Undines skirted by without any caution or care. The area was theirs to meander in. Crownless mandibles creaked wordless psalms. Ghostly veils wafted over armless, legless silhouettes. It was a haunting sight to Guinevere; her heart pounded.

            “Do not fret, Guinevere…” Linde’s hold on hers tightened. “Do not let them sense your fear. You’re alright, m’dear. Just stay close to me.” Her dual-toned coo soothed the bat’s tension while a comforting hand caressed her hip and waist. Linde saw Shamarazad fearlessly tread in front of one banshee. “Indeed,” the echidna agreed, “lest one should haunt you.”

            The Dragon Slayer transformed her quarterstaff once more. “Aduro Dhara, Slaughter…!” With a strong swing, the boulders yielded to become pebbles. Alit with mild surprise, her pale lilacs caught sight of a face—the face of the Bullion Dragon, Garza. A vicious snap came her way, but it missed her leg by the closest hair. Catching herself, Shamarazad locked eyes with the Draconian. Instead, his jaws had snagged her weapon. Brute strength gnarled into it; sharp bolts singed her knuckles.

            She snarled, “Damn you…!”

_There is a man holding a lifeless woman. There is anger and sorrow in his eyes…?_

            “Shamara, don’t move!”

            From behind came a flat-tipped blade. A whooshing sound preceded it. It snaked past Shamarazad’s waist to puncture the Bullion Dragon’s jaw. Subsequently, he screeched in pain. The lady-echidna snatched her mace back, in the nick of time before a flying icicle struck the dragon’s wound. Frigid stitches held the sword tip in place. It was agonizingly cold, brutally searing his nerves and flesh, even as he thrashed as a means to escape it. The entire Avian settlement had fallen on top of them, and he was barely clinging to what strength he had left. Diamant may have been a lost cause, but he fought against his injuries in order to “save” her, anyway.

            Upon closer observation, Shamarazad was able to see that the male dragon was actually weakening. Sluggish scrapes unearthed nothing, and his eyes rolled unsteadily in their sockets. Another flash of ice stabbed into his wound; his shriek was much weaker than before.

 _“The debris will be his tomb, if this keeps up,”_ the Dragon Slayer assumed. Curiously, she turned her sights toward Guinevere. Her sword’s blade was the culprit: Its blade had broken into segments and lashed out at the Draconian. With Linde tossing out ice shards to keep it in place. Only for that meager while did the tactic work. Sooner than she’d thought, he had grown sluggish and weary. Broken ice looked like glass, albeit tinged with blood.

            An acrid smell hit Shamarazad’s nose. It made her cough, throwing an arm over her muzzle.

            The Bullion Dragon groaned in a most pathetic manner. Failure warbled in his song's woeful notes. An acidic substance had burned through his face. Bone peeked through flesh. His left eye bulged before festering into bubbling decay. His singing voice was too weak to discern. But Pallastheia, Erismene, and Persephia made no reaction to it. A heart-rending silence had taken hold of them.

            And from what Linde could gather, it was complete apathy. Cold and stoic herself, she ordered Shamarazad to, “Put him out of his misery.”

            With no feeling left, the warrior-Dragon Slayer approached Garza. “As he sings to his Mother Sunbird, understood…!” Her Infidel Weapon transformed once more into a falchion. A merciless stomp silenced him, as he was too weak to fight back. His grunts were pitiful, sad—vaguely, in prayer. He’d be with his sister and brother again. So he let go of his rage towards her, and allowed her to send him home. With a single impalement to the skull.

* * *

 

_“Paradisal Mother, may this prayer be answered swiftly and bravely.”_

            The bomb’s afterglow was bright enough to be viewed from within Hesroma Sound. The sandbars shifted, the bays quivered. Unsteady earth rumbled, and quicksand pockets were agitated, eating up whatever had fallen into them. Denizens of the territory screamed from the initial shockwave. Marquis Haram issued an immediate state of emergency for his people.

            He received word, as well, of the Talisian Abbeys’ infrastructural damage. Core temples shook at most, but it spooked the Chiropteran women. From their peaks, they descended into Basram and offered to assist in attaining information. The head abbess, Matron Euskara, allowed a small cell of sentinels to investigate her fraternal counterpart.

            _“Please let your mercy cradle the suffering and bring them into your bosom. May they know peace and bask in its everlasting light.”_

            Aerial fleets took to the night sky. Frightened citizens huddled against each other for comfort. Some wives and children, unfortunately, were pulled away from their husbands and fathers by the order for all non-martial citizens to evacuate. Airships were set to immigrate to both the Asturian and Mercrusian Kingdoms. Forerunners went on to escort them.

            In the hands of one young soldier was a red letter. Spoken in the Marquis’s own hand, he would remain in the capital to command his first-line. In strategic efforts to slow the Zaibach insurgency, Marquis Warrick Haram planned to defend his homeland—even if it cost him his life. It brought tears to the coyote’s eyes as he watched his people flee. Surely, Sere would watch over them. As would Phelfis and his son, Værsol. The son’s worry nipped under an incoming Dragon’s Wind.

_“The wicked shall bend to your blesséd edict, O Mother Sunbird. Their sins absolved, we shall forgive them in keeping with your teachings.”_

            Little Miles stayed awake in the night. The fox kit tinkered with a way to transport the Draconian Aerie, if dire conditions were met. Designs made their way to the floor. Preconceived visions didn’t piece themselves together quite so easily for the boy. But, he took it as a challenge and endeavored for the sake of his Kingdom and its people. Especially, King Arthur.

            “Don’t worry, Your Highness,” Miles huffed in bold duty. He wiped a simmer of sweat from his brow. “I won’t give up until I figure out the perfect blueprint! It’ll be perfect—it _has_ to be!”

            A multitude of candles teemed his workspace. Vanille worried that he wouldn’t get enough sleep, and it was a viable worry, he admitted. But for the sake of Fanelia’s defenses and safety, he had to figure out something and had to do it relatively soon. There wasn’t much of a need to design different ones; most were going to transport soldiers, artillery, Melefs—even civilians, if need be. He figured the King’s and Viceroyalty’s flagships could wait a spell. Getting something that would fly was the first step.

            Mercrusian engineers were on their way to assist, according to Deputy-General Alfred. Five of them, and they were to arrive in record time: 18 hours. Which meant Miles had the leisure to hit the hay.

            _“Ease our hearts, O Mother, and hollow them so that they will accept and embrace your love and grace.”_

            Late-night pecks jolted Nimue out of her bed-cushion. She leapt over to the bedroom window and welcomed a young messenger hawk. Meanwhile, Vanille’s burrow was plush as she’d buried herself in her frilled pillows and cottony sheets. A coarse hammock cradled Marina high over her. Her blanket rolled from her side and onto the floor.

            The messenger was sent back on its way. But Nimue had curled up and buried her face into her knees. The red-stained letter bore news from the mysterious, yet prophetic, old man Nostramazakh. One more attuned to Gaea’s history than anyone could say, somehow his words pierced her heart:

            “Little Fanelia, have you figured out Moloch’s numbers? Tides have shifted in the Dark One’s favor…for the Water Dragon has passed in his sleep, and now the Bullion has wept his last breath. A prayer for you, Little Fanelia. Know that you have my aid and counsel.”

            She sniffled a little.

* * *

_“No wonder Valborga’s clarion sounded so sad…”_

            Fanelia’s 2nd Viceroy couldn’t sleep. He nodded heavily, but Valborga’s vigilance outweighed his own by the _costa_. He uttered indecipherable somethings that he quickly forgot. Sleep raked at his eyes. Finally, they snapped closed.

            The morning welcomed them as the Mystic Moon said farewell. Much to the Earth Dragon’s relief, the brighter of the Mother Sunbird’s eyes would surely bring about a new lease on his life. With both his mother and father gone, Valborga only had a few relatives left. And they were all around him. Bastet and Arysariel had curled in close; their uncle, majestic and watchful. He greeted the Earth Dragon, after seeing that the Viceroy had finally fallen asleep. An exchange went between them before sunlit prodded their attention.

            A protective wing shielded them. Escaflowne was determined to protect his master’s kingdom. Realizing it, Valborga nuzzled Gawain gently. It went unnoticed, so Valborga snorted in understanding. He agreed that Gawain was the one who needed him most.

 

 

_Gaea trembles to the unjust start of this unnamed war…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Notes - Here are English translations to a bit more Gaean vocab and technologies:
> 
> Miet - Gaean unit of time equivalent to about 30 Earth seconds  
> Gidor - Gaean unit of distance equivalent to an Earth kilometer  
> Sheik pleïkh’shihmmi / “sheek pleh-ick sheem-mee” – Empyrean-Gaean phrase urging patience or self-control, meaning “Be patient” or “Calm down”; literally “give (yourself) peace”
> 
> Also, in the Zaibach segments of this chpt, I have introduced the Empire's Advanced Tactical Compass System. It is used much like a gyroscope. It works with each dimensional plane, collectively referred to as "Paths". I used Hebrew letters to name the coordinates instead of English or Greek, just to be a little different.


	28. A flight with Escaflowne yields more growth…

Event Twenty-Eight

 

Within that same morning, King Arthur joined up with Head Mechanic Miles Prowler. The small fox donned less patchy overalls over his proper shirt and shoes. Wrapped around his waist was a tool belt, but only to reflect his sash—of decorative badges and steel buckles. His hands were in a neat fold at his tails’ base as he led Arthur into the Hangar.

            Deeper in, rows of giant suits of armor faced them. Melefs, as Miles had described to him, were meant for battle and standard units in the forces he led. Dumbstruck by a familiar disbelief, Arthur still couldn’t believe the nine-year-old fox commanded a whole army regiment by himself.

            A soldier sat inside one of them as he explained. “You see, Your Highness, these models are recent additions to our Noble Forces, after a posthumous request was made by your father. Father Uther was intrigued by the superior Draconiform armor shared between Draconians and their masters. So much that he proposed to have these built so that typical knights could pilot them, as well.”—After a wave, the soldier inside maneuvered its arm—“Even without a pact with Escaflowne, Father Uther was able to fight using one of these. In fact, there is a class of armor above them: The Guymelef.”

            “The Guymelef…?” Arthur wondered. “Is it stronger than these?”

            “Yes, though in terms of endurance and maneuverability.” Miles took him further down the aisle until they met in front of a pair of tall doors. Giant sliding locks barred them both from entry. There, to confirm it, was a massive anvil-shaped padlock. Made of broad-faced iron, perhaps plated with orichalcum. Three keys were needed to undo it.

            Expectantly, Miles brought out the set he needed. As he fiddled with them, Arthur asked, “I’m guessing my father’s Guymelef is in here?”

            “It sure is, Sire. Despite hereditary traditions, you did not inherit this suit of armor…The Doyen did.”

            “Gustavio did?”

            “Moments before your father passed away, Milord, he entrusted this Magnificent Kingdom to the Doyen…as well as this Guymelef.”

_Clank!—Ka-chink…_

            “It is several grades below Draconian armor, but still quite powerful.”

            Arthur stepped through. A completely different mobile suit stood before him. Incoming sunrays bounced all over, but it came up in dull glimmers. Somewhat greenish in tint, Arthur assumed it bore a purposely dimmer grade of metal. It stood much taller than the others he’d seen, but was astonished by its size compared to Escaflowne. How was it bigger than Escaflowne? It required a ladder to get into it. The suit wasn’t as big as the ones he’d seen from childhood TV shows. At roughly 26 feet tall, he figured it was a much more practical height.

            It even had a royal mantle of its own: The same pale-gold as Gustavio’s.

            “This, Your Highness, is your father’s Paladin Guymelef—Goau.”

            Arthur and Miles went up to personally introduce themselves to it. Thundercloud pauldrons intimidated countless opponents, the Doyen himself had expressed. At one point, he’d taken down a whole enemy platoon singlehandedly. It was certainly a force to reckon with, Arthur gathered with a relieved smirk.

            “It’s guarded many lives, Sire. Even Mother Elena IV found both the Doyen and the previous king’s skills admirable using this armor,” the fox grinned at the fact.

            “Quick question, Miles.”

            The boy’s intrigue refocused as he looked up at Arthur. “Yes, Milord?”

            “Did my mother and Escaflowne…ever Dragonsoul?”

            Miles gave his ear a scratch. “I can’t say that they have. There are no records of such an event occurring.”

            “Would Gustavio know?”

            “Yes, but he’s never said anything about the previous queen achieving Draconiform with Escaflowne. Lord Percival may be able to help answer that, too, but…?”

            “Was my grandmother able to do it?”

            Somehow, the boy sensed a shallow grade of distress in the King’s voice. His ears folded a bit at his uncertainty. “I cannot answer that, Milord. Please forgive me.”

            “It’s okay, Miles. It sounds like Gustavio and Percival can’t help me, so…” He gripped his hand into a fist. Then, a twinge of regret squeezed his heart. “I’ll have to ask Escaflowne.”

* * *

Arthur’s cape wobbled at his every stride. The Tempest Dragon was absent from the Hospice, but Arthur had a good second guess to go on. Feeling a bit leery of the Castle’s rear gardens, he remembered the passageway that led out to the Stronghold Vestiges. Past a rose-laden arbor, the gardens’ east respite, Arthur exited out to see a familiar wall on one side. Massive roots stayed dutiful to the stone. He jogged up the steps, making his way to the open glen.

            There, past the tree’s line of vision, sat Escaflowne. The dragon paid him no mind, even as he approached. Without a trace of mischief, Arthur walked up to his partner. Nothing was exchanged for a couple tense minutes. Perhaps a claw lick, maybe a head scratch; nothing beyond those quiet, self-guided movements.

            Until the King spoke up: “Escaflowne, I need to talk to you.”

_1 st Viceroy Lancelot had retired to his bedchamber. A bout of headiness sent him there, as advised by both Doyen Gustavio and Head Nurse Brynn. The Doyen insisted on handling business in his stead, bringing his deputy along for reassurance. A day’s rest would bring him back to proper fitness, they added. So Lancelot had been relieved of his duties for the day._

_The Viceroy’s stubbornness had won him only the rest of the morning. Preparing to head back out, something told Lancelot to wait a moment. He shut his eyes and yielded to the inner voice’s instruction. It had told him to dowse._

_In preparations for the procedure, Lancelot disrobed to his white trousers and navy sash. That moon disk swung as he fastened each pant-leg up to his knees. He slipped into his lavatory and walked up to the face basin. Calm breaths went into his concentration. As he did this, a fraction of his Ensign’s power was summoned. Enough to cause his Signature to glow. Water quivered at his presence, but calmed when he began to breathe deeply._

            “This is really important, Escaflowne. I need to know…if you’ve ever Dragonsouled with my mother, or grandmother even.”

            _Carmine pools spied a gold ring. Its string kept it from losing itself to the water._

            “Miles said there are no records of you doing so with either of them. In all honesty, when Lancelot showed it to me I had no idea where to start in the Dragonsouling process.”

            Quietly, the Draconian’s four eyes met the King’s. Thoughtfulness passed between them. In Escaflowne’s case, a mild hesitation. But Arthur wasn’t ready to back down. Irritation would mark the dragon’s features, he knew, if he pushed. The last thing he needed was deception, however. Especially if it came in the forms of avoidance, omission, and refusal.

            “I still don’t. But you do. I can’t do this by myself. That’s why I need you.”

_Lancelot’s eyes glazed over. Slowly, he brought the ring back into his grasp. His other hand took a more distressed hold on his face. Growling lowly, “Arysariel…Please forgive them…Help me forgive them, too.”_

            There wasn’t much response from the Tempest Dragon, however. He was at strange odds with Arthur, and Arthur didn’t know why.

            “Escaflowne? You won’t say anything to me, and I’m worried. It may not sound like I am, but…the truth is we’ll be going to war soon.”

            Shock scrambled the dragon’s thought processes. “Gustavio said so. The Zaibach Empire has already attacked two of our allies, and their reach is spreading…” His irises slivered by the narrowest margin. The tail-end of Arthur’s words became lost in Escaflowne’s flashbacks. Reality began to blur.

            _The Fanelian Castle Library was impeccably silent. Nothing had fallen out of place since 3 rd Viceroy Percival entered. Book upon book poured across a table’s top. More had stacked across a desk. Lamplight blazed in a quartet of sconces. Percival collected all the books she remembered describing that miraculous bond between Dragon- and Earthborn._

            A soft caw. Arthur blinked a little. “What? What do you mean ‘not again’?”

            Then, a louder caw. It came out as worried; perhaps distraught? It confused Arthur a little. The dragon’s tail whipped in agitation. On guard, Arthur approached him calmly. “As in, not another war? Nobody likes war, but over half your brethren is gone. We have to protect what we have left! And we have _you,_ Escaflowne.”

            But the dragon had thrown his eyes away from the hedgehog. Arthur sighed, lightly exasperated. “C’mon, Escaflowne. Tell me what’s wrong—I’m your partner, your _friend,_ remember?”—Still, nothing—“Please! I can’t work with you when you’re like this! Tell me what’s bothering you—Let me in!”

            A sharp caw.

            “‘I…wouldn’t understand’?” A gritted fang. “Then, assume I’m that idiot you saved from falling to his death! Pretend I’m a complete and utter moron that doesn’t know anything! Explain it to me like I’m some incompetent kid you took in from the rain! _Some_ thing! _Any_ thing! C’mon, work with me here!”

            Suddenly, a flash of white. Long, broad sections whipped towards him. The spade-like tip stared him down. Arthur growled. There was no poison in it, but its poise seemed awfully intimidating. A golden stream had lashed out to form a handguard. Ready to deflect the tail swipe. Before it connected, it stopped. Simply looming—at Arthur’s head. The finished strike would’ve ended Arthur in a heartbeat. The fact that Escaflowne held back spoke volumes.

            A serious glare. “You’d never hurt me on purpose, Escaflowne.”

            It was met with a more disheartened one.

            “We _both_ know that.”

_Percival found some interesting passages: Depictions of the Dragonsouling technique. Pictures were half-drawn and half-painted, becoming a fusion of calligraphy and sketch art. The wispy style made Escaflowne’s power easier to understand. Simple illustrations showed an Earthborn and a Draconian proceeding together. By the fourth frame, they’d conjoined._

_What Percival found most fascinating was the Draconian was, indeed, Escaflowne. And the Earthborn beside him was a woman. A hedgehog, to boot._

_A bit perplexed, the Viceroy looked into a few more books to help her memory. She connected them like pieces to a puzzle. Pages bled into one another like a lost message. Names, places, times, and descriptions came together. In total astonishment, Percival covered her mouth._

_Half-gleeful and half-dismayed, she exhaled, “M…Mother Larynn Selbadeir?”_

            Arthur watched Escaflowne lower his tail. It went limp.

            Baby birds were scheduled for their first flight that day. The six nestlings were squabbling over turns while their parents watched over them. Winds lightened between the hedgehog and the dragon. A sternness failed to disrupt their stalemate. Adamant emeralds locked with downcast ones. Fretful twitters left the beak of a middle nestling.

            “Escaflowne. Whatever it is that you’re bottling up inside…let it go.”

            A defensive snap.

            “I know, easier said than done. But better done than put off, right?”

            Then, an unsure whimper.

            _Florid patches bowed in the breeze. A sweet zephyr had floated under the 2 nd Viceroy’s nose. _Sniff, sniff…

_“Ahh, I ain’t smelt blueberries in a long while. Harvesting season must be over; now, the town wives are baking up pies and things.”_

_The ancient amphitheater stood in contrast to the overcast sky. Thirsty gulps brought hydration to Gawain’s steaming body. A harsh workout brought out the echidna’s inner strength. Now, he needed to rest. He sat atop a sandy cornerstone. Light brushes took off the uppermost wear. Gawain pondered a bit, digging into a back-pocket for something._

_“Come to think of it, I ain’t seen Valborga eat anything in a while, either.”_

_Copper inlays decorated that small flask. On its bottom was a distinctive brand. A family name only he could read, since it was Thalunean._

_Also, because it was the only brand his father drank. One day, when he perused the Kingdom’s Connoisseurs’ Hearth, he noticed the extremely rare gin. He chatted up the tavern owner, but was discouraged to hear that it wasn’t for trade. However, he heard that Tillman brewed it on special occasions for his regulars. Learning it’d been his father’s favorite drink brought Tillman’s heart to crying. So, it became a celebratory drink for every birthday Gawain made it to._

_The Viceroy could taste the blackthorn in it._

_But he stopped. His brows furrowed. “Somethin’ ain’t right…Why’s the earth…crying?”_

            One of the nestlings didn’t get a good start. Frankly, it landed flat on its face. Worried parents were eased by Arthur’s compassion. Weak peeps roused a chuckle out of the King. A slight mishap in muscle memory, but he gave it a chance to recover. He stroke its little head.

            Escaflowne spied it from the corner of his eye.

            Arthur sighed. “I won’t push you any further, Escaflowne.” He cradled the fallen bird back into its home, hopefully willing to let itself try again. “I just wanted you to know that I’m with you in this. I hope you’ll be at my side when everything starts. I don’t think I can protect everyone by myself. I…I want you to be there for me, just like always. Just like I am for you.”—Cheerful chirps went to the nestling—“Just like you were for my whole family.”

            Draconian irises slivered further.

 

_The Kingdom is burning. Fire spins out of control._  
_Lightning sparks madness. The rains are the dragon’s namesake._  
_Thunder scolds the people in their suffering.  
_ _Benevolent winds have fallen out of favor with those people._

_No Earthborn will know a wrath mightier than a dragon’s._

_Escaflowne’s eyes pierce the heart of a regaled maiden._  
_At the foot of an entrapping storm, the woman cries for mercy and calm.  
_ _Her song, lifted by an unbefitting smile, frees the people of his hurricane._

_It frees him of hurt. Of rage.  
_ _It placates his doubt. His fears._

 

            A light touch.

            Escaflowne’s focus was snatched up by Arthur’s face.

            A sincere, yet defeated, look had prevailed. King Arthur gave in to Escaflowne’s declinations and let go of the issue. He resolved that, for now, he needed to ease the Draconian’s tension. He kept his hand on the dragon’s muzzle; he stroked it lightly.

            “I’m not gonna pick at you about it anymore. You can just tell me when you’re ready, okay?” A kind nuzzle, and a skipping teardrop. “I’m sorry, Escaflowne.”

            After more pep talk, the baby bird had finally gained an aptitude for flight. Muscles cooperated, and an innate glee made it float over an incoming draft.

            “You like flying around, don’t you? Come fly with me, okay?”

 

* * *



No banter passed. Both the king and the dragon were quiet. Arthur let Escaflowne take hold of the reins, and sat on the cushioned saddle. The afternoon sculled by. They sailed like a boat on a lake. The Titanic Plains looked so vast. Gray stone poked out in mostly squared fashions. Mysteriously, more jagged edges did, too. Arthur wondered why for a moment, but dismissed it as Escaflowne banked away.

            _“Maybe he knows something about it?”_ he wondered. _“Maybe not now, but when the time is right.”_

            Escaflowne stayed quiet, keeping a good altitude over a dense forest. Deciduous trees bled into coniferous ones. Woodland fauna had grown bigger, huskier, as they moved north. The air grew nippy; Arthur tucked his muzzle under his cape’s cowl. Regal fur bristled against his nose when he caught sight of a clearing.

            He sneezed. “There’s a good landing spot.”

            Mighty wings took them down without a hint of disagreement.

 

Together, Arthur and Escaflowne trekked through the tall groves. High above, a hawk eyed the hedgehog and Tempest Dragon, almost fascinated by their arrival. Arthur could see pines in the distance over one shoulder. Over the other came a river. Further along its bank stood a relatively close shadow.

            Escaflowne and Arthur stopped at the same time.

            “I mean you no harm. I come in peace. I’m here to counsel you.”

            Arthur blinked, his brows dipping a little. “Who are you?”

            “Why, the Old Man—Nostramazakh, of course.”

            An elderly echidna came forth, sporting deceptive youthfulness. Appearing no older than his early 70s, the man approached the Fanelian King wearing a brown capuchin, gown, sandals, as well as mild surprise. Brilliant reddish-orange tresses were streaked by wisest white. A distinguished beard gave dimension to his countenance. His smile, more obvious. Light strokes went over the young king’s hands—careful caresses, taps to the palm, fingers and thumbs, even near the wrist. Arthur had to wonder what the elder was doing.

            Escaflowne watched with curious interest.

            “I see, you are Arthur Dalian—Queen Elena’s son and Fanelia’s lost Crown Prince.”

            “How did you…? Did you figure that out by reading my palms?”

            “Indeed! Astute, aren’t you? Now, come, come with me….” The elderly man seemed too feeble to be pulling Arthur so firmly. “You may take shelter in my retreat.”

 

It was the biggest pine Arthur had ever seen. Rough and cone-laden, the Old Man’s retreat was within its centuries’ worth of bark. It bore an unassuming façade; its true entrance was underground. Hidden stairs led the hedgehog and echidna downward. A lone lantern flashed to life at their approach.

            A strong rustle. Arthur threw his eyes upward.

            “Worry not, Young King.” The old man pushed open the door. “It looks like Escaflowne found a good perch. Ho ho—incoming.”

            Arthur paused, confused. But then, down on his head came a fist-sized pine cone. “Ow!” The gasp sounded more startled than pained. He smoothed out his quills. “Yeah, he’s one for altitude, all right…”

            The door shut. And the lantern flickered out. Near a root’s base hopped a cricket. Was night going to fall already?

            Old Man Nostramazakh kept a quaint home. Tidy for the most part, with forest aromas that kept certain predators at bay. A hermit’s home, but it was so clean Arthur was surprised. Books abound. Honey was jarred and served as a compliment to freshly fried dough. A griddle gave proof of the elderly man’s survival. As opposed to baking it, the bread had been pan-fried in olive oil, then slathered in honey; as for meat, there wasn’t much variety, but a daily delicacy happened to be quail.

            Arthur had no idea until the Old Man said it. Even then, he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to be rude to him, after such great hospitality.

            “Escaflowne seems troubled, Young King. Did something happen between the two of you?”

            Arthur set down his quail leg. “Well,” he started, “he’s been avoiding me lately. I’m not sure what I did—if anything, but I’m worried about him.”

            Seasoned broth steamed on top of his helping of braised quail. Arthur gave the elder a little smile at the helping. The old man had a few choice words for the King. He sat, took up a cup, sipped it, and paused.

            “Escaflowne is unsure, right now.”

            Arthur gawked at him a moment. “Unsure? Of what? That we’ll mesh?”

            “Nonsense. If he’d known that beforehand, he’d never have taken an Oath with you. Though, I do advise you to keep an eye on him, Young Highness.” He poured some tea into Arthur’s cup. “Escaflowne can be a bit…hard to understand sometimes.”

            “Hmm…?” He watched the old man tap honey into the cup. After a moment, he stopped him and both resumed their meals.

 

Leftovers were delivered to Escaflowne. The Tempest Dragon could smell the meal from his perch. But to see the bag in Arthur’s hand made him feel uneasy. The hedgehog peered into the pine’s umbrage. “Escaflowne?” he called. “Dinnertime! Come on down and eat something, okay?” After no confirmation came, Arthur called up again, “Escaflowne? Are you up there?”

            Still nothing. Worry traced itself under Arthur’s frown.

            “Let him be, Young Lord. Come, sit with me.”

            Doing what he was told, Arthur took in the sights of the Old Man’s residence. Up from the riverside skipped a beaten path. Along it, tall grasses bowed in the wind. There weren’t many flowers, since there was a seemingly ever-present chill. Was the Old Man warm in his getup?

            Arthur saw a husky elk trod up to it. Taking a drink, he saw an unusual majesty in the creature. It was a strong-built, well-off male. He was alone, too.

            “He’s migrating southward,” the Old Man added to Arthur’s thoughts. Mystified, the young King took a double take at Nostramazakh. “There’s a herd he’s been tailing for some time, now. They’ve taken up rest over in the clearing further down. He’s a bachelor seeking out one of the cows, but he’s a smart one, see.”

            He pointed to the herd just above the farthest line of sight. Arthur caught a twitch of movement. There, perched on a rock, was a leader elk. Surrounding him, a host of females. Arthur stood for a better view. “Whoa,” he sighed in amazement.

            “Indeed. I heard the master’s bugle before his arrival,” Nostramazakh chuckled. “This bachelor, here, keeps his distance. He’s waiting for the second round of breeding to be over; that way, he can approach one of the cows more easily. The younger ones will be in estrus soon, so his patience has served him well.”

            Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing for a second. “Wow, you know an awful lot about it, huh?”

            Though the Old Man simply smiled. “Of course. I may not look it, but I’ve been around for a tad over 900 years.”

            There was no reaction for a moment.

            Until, finally, came Arthur’s—“ _Ehh?!_ ”

            Higher up, Escaflowne had acquainted himself with the hawk he’d sensed earlier. Apparently, he was already a father and telling him adventure stories. In a way, the hawk reminded him of someone from his distant memories. Proving himself a good listener, Escaflowne silently watched the hawk interact with his family. Young nestlings peeped as their mother quieted them. Escaflowne’s thoughts drifted a bit.

* * *

_Sweet croons brought out an anxious male. Even-tempered steps brought a brownish-black dragon closer to a beautiful white one._

_Looking on was an unparalleled beau, easily the most attractive of men. A nurturing countenance, soothing cadence, and a welcoming beckon. Embracing his crown was a pair of entwined birch branches. He flaunted no rich adornments or exquisite decorations. The richness came from the handmade crafts he displayed, and the sweet smile he wore. Angelic bell sleeves waved with his gestures. A virtuosic voice lilted over the family._

_Blinded by amniotic fluids, a newborn Draconian left its shell and curled up to its mother. Feathery splendors kept the babe close; a massive body enclosed it even further. The song calmed the snowy bluster. Parental love shielded it from the snow…_

* * *

            Twilight danced around the skyline. Nearby fauna burrowed for sleep, while nighttime inhabitants rose to a baying wolf. The Mystic Moon appeared to provide comfort for not only the hawk family, but Escaflowne. He’d finally come down to eat his meal. It was cold, but he scarfed it in earnest.

            Arthur watched him, dispirited by the Tempest Dragon’s refusal to make eye contact.

 

 

_And more mysteries, as well…_


	29. I’m learning about you…more and more

 

Event Twenty-Nine

 

_Twilight teased the incoming night. After dinner, Old Man Nostramazakh showed Arthur a seat. Atop a cushion, seemingly handmade, Arthur sat. Not too far from his feet was a stack of books; easily, he was reminded of Percival._

_“That lass takes after my heart better than my own apprentice,” the elderly echidna had to admit. He picked up one from a different stack. “Lady Percival, I mean.” He chuckled._

_A breathless expression took over Arthur’s face. “Are you…r-reading my mind or something?”_

_“In a way. But Lassie Percival has always been enthralled by my books. They’re easy reads, informative, as she holds a deep appreciation for knowledge and wisdom.” He flipped through a dark-gold tome. Knotted borders engraved its leather covers. “I’m glad the Castle Library holds interest to her. It does this old man’s heart good!” He gave a hearty laugh._

_“Wait, what are you saying?”_

_Spotting confusion, the Old Man smiled. “Oh, forgive me, Young Lord. I haven’t formally introduced myself, have I?” Laying his book on his lap, he folded his hands together; riddled by age, they shuddered a bit before coming together. “I am Nostramazakh, the ‘Old Man’ a mere coinage that I acquired over my many years. I hail from far away—the eastern side of Talaeth, but traveled to Fanelia to become a priest. I made it, but now I’m retired. Fanelian Queens sought me out for advice for generations, so I’m not surprised by your coming here.” He smiled again. “I’ve authored almost every single book in your Castle’s Library. And, a lot of the land’s history is up here.” He poked his temple._

_Arthur was stunned. “You know…everything, huh?”_

_“Almost. I’ve lived for over 900 years, thanks to the Faunal Signet. I’ve been blessed with it by the Permafrost Dragon, Jeture. He dwells not too far from us—in Celena’s Permafrost. That’s why it’s kind of chilly here.” He laughed gently._

_“So, the Faunal Signet’s kept you alive…for almost a millennium?”_

_“That’s right. I’m much more attuned to the Earthwork because of it, too. Countless seasons, days and nights, migrations, births and deaths, even the growth of trees and villages—I’ve seen them all. Also, because the Satyrs never stop bragging about it to me.”_

_Then, Arthur was sideswiped. “S-…Satyrs? As in, one of the Albion?”_

_“Ah, there’s a familiar term,” he cheered. “Yes, indeed…I never hear the end of it, either. One will claim to have allowed crops to prosper during a drought, while another will cultivate wildflowers just to please Lady Khümrolia. Once she becomes a topic, the Satyrs debate relentlessly, vying for her attention and favor…Ugh.”_

_The young king caught a look of light exasperation on the echidna’s face. To it he shyly half-smiled. “Well, that’s something I’ve never experienced. Nor will I. Heh heh…Sorry to hear that.”_

_“All’s well that ends well.” The Old Man’s smile never cowered away. Even from the sudden sternness that entered his voice. “Go to Diadem Abbey, Young Lord. It may provide an answer for you about Escaflowne, your lineage, maybe special powers you’ve yet to master….”_

 

* * *

_“Perhaps even yourself.”_

            Nighttime stars twinkled. The Mystic Moon greeted Gaea, as always. Now that the summer months were nigh of passing, it also meant that the Fire Demigoddess and Wind Demigod would soon see an outcome in their battle. Fighting fiercely, her Heat and his Wind would sometimes clash badly enough to cause droughts. Therefore, their grandfather—the Father Earthmover, Phelfideüs—would step in. Gustavio said he was fair, according to Gaean legend. An ageless man who heralded the world’s wisdom, as well. Jokingly, he’d say he was “only a tad” jealous.

            Much like the Father Earthmover, Old Man Nostramazakh had a lot of wisdom to share. It’d have been impossible for Arthur not to believe it. _“My grandmother even sought his advice,”_ the thought sculled across his mind.

            Which reminded him: The Old Man had to know his grandmother, too, right?

            For now, Arthur followed the sage’s instruction to head to Diadem Abbey. Wherever that was.

            “Escaflowne?” bright emeralds asked, “Do you know where this ‘Diadem Abbey’ is?”

            Nothing was given as a reply. Only another wingbeat.

            “It’s safe to assume you do, since we’re, uh…” He blinked nervously. “ _Not_ going back to the Castle.”

            Much further north, closer to the Floresta Mountains’ foothills, sat a strange knoll. It was hard to distinguish it in the darkness, but Escaflowne seemed to spot it just fine. Meadows hugged its sides, and a single dirt path coiled around it. It was an odd sight to Arthur: A knoll with a winding dirt part sitting in the middle of nowhere. On top of that, there was a structure to crown it.

            The young king looked on as he dismounted from Escaflowne’s saddle. The Tempest Dragon gave the sight a sullen glare. It was mostly destroyed, desolate, and lonely. As if there’d been no activity for years.

            “Whoa, kinda creepy-looking,” Arthur had to say. “So, is that the Abbey, Escaflowne?”

            In return, a just-as-sullen nod.

            “Hey? You okay?”

            Then, a hiss. It almost came off as annoyed.

            “This place doesn’t scare you, does it? You scared of ghosts or something?” Arthur chuckled.

            Despite it, Escaflowne showed his master a blank face before replying with a matter-of-fact squawk.

            Arthur instantly stopped laughing. Sweat beaded, then raced down his face. An overt fear had taken over. He blinked rapidly. “W-W-Wait…What’d you say about a poltergeist?” 

* * *

 

Onward, Escaflowne ferried his master up the hill. From what Arthur understood, the Abbey stood atop the Diadem Tor—the hill with a winding path said to serve as a “spiritual journey” to anyone who treks it. The most important part, though, was that it needed to be followed from start to finish, or else no spiritual insight would be gained. Escaflowne compared the feeling to when someone walks into a room and forgets what they went in it for.

            “So, a doorway effect, huh?” The blue hedgehog scanned the environment.

            As Escaflowne moved along the path, flowers were kissed by glowing orbs of light. They shivered a little. Arthur peered closer at the multitude of colorful lights. They were moving; upon curious inspection, a whole flock had come up to greet him and Escaflowne. Chuckling, Arthur returned it. “Hey, are these fairies, Escaflowne? Ha ha—they’re kinda cool-looking! And adorable…?”

            A courageous bunch rested around the hedgehog’s crown. Forming a crown. It was perfect, since they were a pale shade of gold. Arthur laughed with them in their mischief.

            Only for Escaflowne to huff a little.

            Before he knew it, Escaflowne had stopped to let him off. The young king dispelled the fairy-crown and hopped down from the riding saddle. He patted off his trousers. At some movement, Arthur threw his eyes in the dragon’s direction. He watched for a moment as he tucked in his wings, gave the soil a solid pawing, and curled up like a cat on a hearth. Somewhat pleased by the sight, the hedgehog smiled.

            “You’ll be okay if I leave you here, won’t you? All I have to do is go through there…Strange. I don’t feel like I’ve been on a ‘spiritual journey’ or anything like that.” He went on ahead. The single archway was tall, though dilapidated. “Probably because those fairies distracted me…Heh heh.”

            As Arthur disappeared into it, Escaflowne caught the edge of his comment. He sighed. Emerald eyes spied the fairies’ movements. Some were a bit too intimidated by his size to come near, but others braved it to comfort him. Pale-green orbs bobbed back and forth; pale-blue ones floated by with hesitant care. The pale-gold ones stayed to snuggle against Escaflowne’s body. Unlike the fairies from medieval lore, the Fay on Gaea were said to be by-products of the Hemispheric Gods’ essence. The Fay were friends with the world’s fauna and flora, including the Draconians, and held sacred tasks in their own right.

            Escaflowne wondered if Arthur knew that. So, he asked the gold fairies—the Sylphs—to help him out. Obediently, a passel of them went to follow Arthur’s trail.

* * *

The Abbey’s property had become ruins. The only things left standing were the main arch, and what looked like a vestibule. Trees stood guard, while wildflowers flourished in bare spots. Arthur noticed that the fairies cleared out as he moved further in; in fact, most of them had. Except for the ones coming up to his shoulder. He was glad to see them. “Would you mind lighting the way for me? I’m sort of struggling to see….” Happy to oblige, they stringed along the boy’s line of sight. As he grew closer, the last fairy flittered to the front. To one who’d forgotten Arthur let out a tiny chuckle.

            It was broken inside, much like on the outside. Only a façade of its former self. It was dark, so Arthur entered with his guard up. He envisioned the vestibule being grand, magnificent, designed by an expert. Its masterful details, however, were lost to history. A downtrodden quality took roost in Arthur’s eyes. The fairies hadn’t fled, but they flittered nervously at his expression.

            “It _feels_ broken, if I can say that.” Arthur took in more of what the abbey had been, struggling to see its original beauty. “From what I can tell, it sounds like it was a convent. Like where Gustavio grew up, except for…well, women.”

_“Indeed, Boy-King.”_

            Arthur threw himself into a defensive stance. His ears swiveled about. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

_“Be at ease, Boy-King. I mean you no harm.”_

            A woman’s voice. Arthur let down his guard. It was unfamiliar, but clear and honest. He turned around to face its source. The Sylphs bobbed towards her in an excited way. Their gold auras brightened her silhouette. She was a beauty, a fluffy-tailed mink, garbed in traditional clothes befitting to a leader, though not of a military or kingdom. Encircling her wrist was a rosary. Noticing it, Arthur approached her bravely.

            She smiled at his approach. After a nod, her curtsy was different from what Fanelian women usually showed him. Instead of lifting her skirts, her hands stayed in front of her. _“I am Abbess Iustine. Welcome, Boy-King, to the Diadem Abbey.”_

            Arthur bowed handsomely to her. “Thank you, my lady. I am King Arthur from the Kingdom of Fanelia,” he introduced himself, “And I’ve come here on the behest of Old Man Nostramazakh. I’ve only recently taken the throne, but I’m seeking advice on a matter I’m having trouble with.”

            _“Ah. With the Tempest Dragon, the Fen and Maiden’s third-born?”_

            “Y-Yes…ma’am.”

            She gave him a kind smile. The Sylphs swayed around her like lanterns. _“I see. I have been tasked to do so since the Abbey’s destruction many a century ago. A conflict in the distant past devastated this area, extending across most of Titanic Plains. I’ve not seen the heiresses after your Kingdom’s first Queen, but now…I’ve met both Helene III and Elena. Your grandmother and mother, respectively.”_

            Confusion traced itself underneath Arthur’s dipping brows. “Wait. But how?”

            His question was answered with a calm proudness. _“I’ve met them…through you.”_

            Arthur’s eyes widened a bit. Gentle psalms rose over the Abbess’s ghost. The Sylphs swarmed upward, twirling in a glowing stream. It looked like it was dispersing itself into the ethers. _“Gather your wit and courage, Young Arthur, and go to your allies,”_ came the Abbess’s parting instruction. _“The Tempest Dragon seeks what you are seeking. He is troubled by the events in his past, by a darkness that destroyed Old Fanelia.”_

 

Arthur left with a cloud of questions. As he and Escaflowne coasted back to Fanelia Castle, he wasn’t sure how to decipher the Abbess’s advice. The closest allies he could think of, whom might offer the thickest slivers of help, were Doyen Gustavio, his deputy Alfred, and Chancellor Miles. Just how much insight could they provide? Was it enough to alleviate the tension between him and his Draconian partner?

            For now, Escaflowne was relatively calm. Almost relaxed. Glad, Arthur decided to let Escaflowne keep the reigns. The Castle was in sight, now.

 

_“Go to your allies, Young King. You will both find the answers you seek…together.”_

 

King Arthur’s return brought his counsels back into the Ambassadorial Cabinet. The central chamber held the King’s Round Table. High vaults allowed moonlight to beam down. The high belfry was a surefire nest for Gaea’s nocturnal fauna. An earthen rosette barred the creatures from entering, its muddled glass letting in nighttime light.

            The King and his counselors were prepared to take their seats. Silent acknowledgement floated around the room before Chancellor Miles initiated the sit-down. “5th Nocturne. Orange, 8th Moon. Present, Lord Arthur Dalian,”—Arthur nodded—“Doyen Gustavio Macchus,”—the elder half-bowed—“Deputy Alfred Rohmann,”—the big cat smiled softly—“and myself, Chancellor Miles Prowler. This Cabinet meeting may now commence.”

            The four gentlemen took their seats. The Round Table’s crest braved through the darkness with its moonlit shine.

            “Doyen,” Arthur began over laced fingers, “during our travels, Escaflowne and I came across the Old Man’s hospice. I had a chat with him, about the problems I’m having with Escaflowne. Going on the advice he gave me, we traveled to Diadem Abbey. Where I was told to seek out Abbess Iustine.”

            “…Abbess Iustine?” Miles wondered. “She presided over the Abbey and its convent hundreds of years ago. How were you able to speak to her?”

            “Through the Sylphs,” came Gustavio’s answer. He made a courtesy of explaining it to Miles. “Fay can act as mediums for the departed, coalescing to form magical projections of a person. Depending on the affinity that parted soul had prior to death, a certain species of Fay may convene in vaster quantities than the others.” Looking to Arthur, “In this case, the Sylphs were able to convey her based on the aura she had when she was alive.”

            “Fay are drawn to people’s auras?” Arthur blinked.

            “Yes. The very fact that the Sylphs guided you to her is key proof of that.”

            Arthur thought back for a moment: He had noticed a handful of distinctive colors the Fay exhibited on his way up the Tor. Some had a blue tinge, while others had a pink or yellow one. Was that what differentiated them? Now that he remembered, the fairies that’d followed him were identical to the ones hovering around Escaflowne.

            It made Arthur want to ask something else. “So…does the same go for Dragons, too?”

            Miles looked at Gustavio, a curious look of his own drawing a tiny smile across his face. Alfred’s did the same.

            “…Something similar happens, in regard to Draconians, yes, sire.”

            The sixteen-year-old’s interest was piqued. But he set the question aside for another time. “Doyen? Abbess Iustine told me that Escaflowne is seeking the same thing I am…but she touched at a clue to what’s been bothering him lately. She said something about ‘events’ in Escaflowne’s past—that he’s troubled ‘by a darkness that destroyed Old Fanelia’…?” His eyes turned to the albatross. “Do you know what she’s referring to?”

            With full-faced honesty, and after a surrendering sigh, Gustavio replied: “Yes. I do, my lord.”

            Arthur caught Miles’s hesitation. A purely physical reaction from the ten-year-old fox. Knowing the Doyen, he was sure the explanation would come in the most bare-boned and straight-laced sense. A sense of dread had rested on Miles’s shoulders.

            Arthur wasn't going to like this one bit.

            “Think further back, sire, to a time when a village has just grown into a kingdom. Tribes came together and forged truces, pacts, agreements that benefitted all…to a note of a dutiful, brave maiden’s song.”

            Arthur’s imagination activated, and it took him through a possible leap back in time.

            _His mind’s stage opened up to a lovely woman standing in a cheering crowd’s midst._

            “Fanelia’s first Queen, Mother Larynn Selbadeir. She was a kind, just woman whose interests lied in education, fairness, harmony, and peace. According to our earliest records, there was a trial she had to pass before she’d rule from the newly established throne. Her father had sent her off to the Floresta Foothills, near the Tempest Dragon’s roost…”

_The beauty rode on horseback and arrived to the bottom of a tall crag. Similar to the ones he found during his training with Percival._

            “It was there that she met Escaflowne for the very first time.”

_Escaflowne locked eyes with the maiden._

            “Her personal account says that the dragon ‘was not impressed’ by her. She admitted her lack of strength, as an expression of humility, but it was the air of distrust she worried more for. Her father had instructed her to dispel the distrust he seemed to have with the Earthborn…It was as mysterious as the Draconian himself, but she attempted to win his trust with peace offerings, companionship, and adoration…only to fail each time.”

_He envisioned her bringing him food, jewels and water—to which he shook his head. Sitting beside him in silence didn’t make things progress; only awkward, leading him to ignore her. Even showering him with compliments and praise backfired, he was sure. Accepting her words fully, he gave nothing but rudeness in return. It was an oddly irritating sight, even in Arthur’s imagination._

            “Months into the future, her persistence and fortitude won him over. Countless trips back and forth, a mountain of gifts, and a cycle of praise, derision, and humiliation later, Mother Larynn had won Escaflowne’s favor, and the news allowed her to ascend the throne. This day in our history is presented as the ‘Coronation of the Tempest-Queen’.”

_Arthur could only imagine the relief on her face as she paraded through the town’s streets. Rice and bubbles rained everywhere. Her smile was huge._

            Gustavio’s voice took a grave plunge. “However, that very same day was christened the ‘Attempt of Nadal,’ due to a disgruntled offshoot of rebels who’d tried to assassinate the Queen.”

            Miles gulped. Arthur’s thoughts became jarred. “Did they succeed?”

            “No. She avoided a grim demise after being protected by her father’s guardsmen. Doubtless that more would come for her, she went into seclusion. She was escorted to the Diadem Abbey on the correspondent order of her father and Abbess Iustine, herself.”

_Arthur could see the Abbess rushing Larynn inside. The doors he knew had gone were shutting quietly…_

            “Nadal was the rebels’ leader and a dissident within Old Fanelia. Some believe him to have been a spy; others, a faithless heathen. Nonetheless, his attempt grew into a coup against the reigning family. The violence took innocent lives, pillaged homes, and eventually it was all swallowed by fire.”

_Shock took over the King’s face as he imagined the grit of Gustavio’s explanation. The screams, the bloodshed, and mercilessness…even down to a toy doll’s abandonment._

            “Escaflowne had noticed the Queen’s uncustomary absence before discovering the destruction. Instinct snatched him from his home, and he surveyed the chaos from high above. Afraid that the Queen had perished, his emotions seized him…and he unleashed a dark force upon Old Fanelia.”

            That was where Arthur’s imagination stopped. Chilled by such an intense reaction from the Tempest Dragon, the teenager sat back and allowed Gustavio to finish.

            “He’d been blinded by his sadness and rage that he brought down a storm—a swirling heaven—upon the settlement. It destroyed everything within range. Even Nadal and his rebel army had succumbed to its might. Inadvertently, Escaflowne had destroyed not only the threat to his most beloved friend’s, but could’ve destroyed her home in the process.”

            Miles sniffled a little. Nothing about that part of the story was a comfort to him. It was always enough to bring tears to his eye.

            “By the highest grace, Mother Larynn survived. But that event is forever inked into Fanelia’s history. It is the reason for the displacement of the Purlieu’s denizens.”—Arthur had gasped—“It is also the first, and sole, account of an Ensign’s ability to become tainted.”

            A sweat drop flew down Arthur’s jawline. “An Ensign…can become tainted?”

            “Yes, it can,” Alfred answered this time. “And it usually occurs when its user finds himself unable to restrain his emotions. Essentially, the power runs wild throughout the wielder’s body because of the lack of equilibrium between them. It’s similar to your heart’s reaction to exercise, and the force of the pumping blood swells within you. Your body temperature also increase, especially if anger is what spurred such a response.”

            Arthur’s eyes wobbled. His pupils danced in and out of dilation. Just thinking about it spooked him.

            “Anger isn’t the exclusive way to lose control, Your Highness,” Alfred continued, trying to sound a bit more hopeful. "Other catalysts may be sadness, loneliness, guilt, even fear…which is why after Old Fanelia was destroyed, Queen Larynn saved Escaflowne with the Spiriting Prayer. He heard her song, and the skies calmed. He, himself, was relieved and rushed to her side once all had gone. Survivors were shaken and deathly afraid of Escaflowne, but Queen became Fanelia’s ‘Hero-Queen’ after resurrecting our new Kingdom from the ashes of the Old. The citizens praised her, witnessing her taking Moloch’s Oath with Escaflowne firsthand. Thereafter, he’d pledged his loyalty to her, the new kingdom and its people, and her line of progeny…” With a great big smile, Alfred finished by adding, “And I’m elated to say that it’s succeeded all the way down to _you,_ Your Highness.”

            An epiphany struck the King like lightning. Had the darkness in Escaflowne’s heart gone away? Was a song really all that was needed to calm him down? This Queen sounded amazing. But it was a scary thing for Arthur to realize.

            “If something were to happen to me…” he had to ask, “Would Escaflowne react…the exact same way?”

            Because Arthur was afraid to see the Dragon destroy everything within range.

 

 

_I’ve learned…a little too much about you…_


	30. Taking flight…towards a better understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Brief depiction(s) of full-body nudity, swearing, and minor suggestive themes ahead.
> 
> CONTINUE WITH CAUTION.

Event Thirty

 

Leaving the Ambassadorial Cabinet, King Arthur’s imagination plagued him. His eyes remained averted; Miles let out an uneasy sigh. He toyed with the tuft on his cheek. The little fox was unsure how to allay the king’s anxiety. Departing the Cabinet’s inner chambers led the two of them northward. The high vaults teased them with shadows. Miles blinked up at them. His wide blue eyes looked back over to Arthur’s contemplative expression. Then, blinked.

            “Perhaps a word with your Viceroys might help, Sire?”

            Arthur’s thoughts broke from their train to look down at Miles’s half-sure smile. It was tiny and crooked—truly unsure, but with a miniscule trace of hope. He listened as the boy went on.

            “Lords Lancelot, Percival, and Gawain are with you in this, too, so look to them for aid. I’m sure the answers you seek will show themselves through their advice. Have a good sit-down with them; they’re in here.” He showed the hedgehog to the Aerie’s Hospice doors. “They got worried when you and Escaflowne returned with sour looks on your faces. It was Sir Lancelot’s idea to counsel Escaflowne while awaiting you.”

            Arthur’s eyes softened. He rested a hand on the Hospice’s lock-bar. It was stroked gently, carefully, before its handle was taken up. “Well, our meeting’s over, so I’d better not keep them waiting any longer.”

            Wood scraped quietly. Hinges creaked. A soft clatter hung after the just-as-quiet close.

            Inside, the Viceroys and Draconian Aerie’s attention was roused.

            Both Arthur and Miles approached the small assembly. The hangar doors yielded to the breeze that filled the space. Drowsy pollen mixed with sojourning spruce. Nighttime breezes carried in a few outside visitors, as well. A brood of barn owls took up space near the Tempest Dragon’s favored pocket. But they weren’t what agitated Escaflowne.

            The sandy-pearl dragon fidgeted: His broad tail whipped back and forth. His wings flinched in their tuck, threatening to flare outward. His eyes glared daggers at Arthur. Something in his snorts and snarls sounded nervous, or perhaps even panicky. Viceroy Lancelot’s efforts to calm him slipped with each resistant pull.

            A whispery coo kept dropping from his lips. “ _Hahash’ameyyebah_ … _Hahash’ameyyebah_ …” The Viceroy’s hands were glued to the dragon’s muzzle, stroking and smoothing it in attempts to calm Escaflowne down.

            But the dragon resisted even further, and finally yanked himself from Lancelot’s hands. With a mighty leap and good timing, Escaflowne rode the wind up and away from the Hospice.

            Arthur hadn’t even greeted his partner. A despondent gleam crossed over the King’s normally bright emeralds.

            “Give the Tempest more time, Sire.”

            Arthur’s throat caught. Lancelot had spoken words of patience. Of an understanding he seemed to share with the Draconian, but from which Arthur still felt detached. Nonetheless, the Viceroy’s words heartened him to join them. Percival and Bastet welcomed the King, as did the Mist Dragon, Arysariel. Gawain and Valborga showed him a place to sit.

            Although the Mystic Moon was still in the eastern quadrant of the sky, its light beamed down like a small sun. Crisp moonlight called forth Naiads—light-blue fairies that inhabited Gaea’s lakes, rivers, and underwater ruins. Sprites danced under the Snapdragon Sanctuary. Another clique huddled along the pool’s shoreline. They didn’t mind the wind coursing between the pillars; it made them bump into a fading waterlily.

            A whimsical school of Sylphs snuck past Arthur’s vision, seemingly curious about the conversation going on between him and his Viceroyalty.

            “Escaflowne’s apprehension stems back to our first Queen,” Percival addressed the King’s discouragement. Bastet looked to her with confidence. “I’ve learned that, for several centuries, he’s born insecurities with the successors after Mother Larynn Selbadeir. Each one he can recall by name, he can easily recall the nervousness he held around them.” Percival stroked the Nocturne Dragon’s ruff as she continued on; a relaxed look was denoted on her mask as slowly blinking crescents. “It’s been that way since the birth of Black Escaflowne, who’d destroyed Fanelia’s first settlement—Camelot.”

            Arthur nodded. “So I’ve heard. It was something that came up in our conference earlier…but Escaflowne did it to avenge the Queen. I guess he’d thought she’d been killed, and wanted to protect her people….”

            “Yes, indeed,” Lancelot was able to confirm. “Since then, and the Oath taken between the Tempest and our Queen thereafter, Escaflowne has become a living god—Fanelia’s Patron God of Protection. The Fanelian people respect and fear his power, but there are those who haven’t come to terms with it.”

            Arysariel snorted, as if to agree.

            Gawain had a turn to clarify. “That’s whom the Purlieu is for. Townspeople of Old Fanelia, stubborn generations who’ve refused the Monarchy’s help or felt betrayed by the old settlement’s destruction. It’s long since regrown, but the scars are still there.” Valborga snored a bit as the explanation leveled out of its curve. “There’s never been a disruption or plan of insurgence. The refugees below don’t complain much, and supplies are sent to them on a daily basis. We take care of them, since they’re still viewed as part of our kingdom. Nonetheless, some turn around and decide to go up for a chance at citizenry…We’ve never turned a blind eye, Your Highness.”

            Cogs started to turn.

            “The Kingdom has been rebuilt twice throughout its history, Your Highness,” Percival interjected for further understanding. “Camelot stood first. Then, the new settlement, which lies northeast of the original, nearly a hundred years later. During the Kingdom’s readjustment stages, an unnamed war was waged. At the time, it had no name. But now, we’ve come to know it as the ‘Ispano-Florestan War’, named after the location the conflict took place in—on the Ispano and Floresta border.”

            Arthur nodded.

            “As you’re well aware, a massive wall was constructed during that uneasy time. Soon after its completion, two of its sections had been destroyed: The Aeolus and Valsiren Guards. With the enemy’s defeat came a calm, and that calm allowed the Queen to reconcile the Guards’ repair, noting access to the Titanic Plains. It is not unprotected, Highness; it is watched over by our hawk-eyes and veiled by a coat of protection magic.”

            “Protection magic? Like a barrier?”

            “One invisible until struck by outside magic,” Lancelot answered. “It is a relatively low level spell, but it can be strengthened only by the Doyen’s _Nö_ _lsikh Stratan_ Ensign. As our Kingdom’s Chief Guardian, he holds the responsibility of maintaining that barrier. It has stood for many years since the war on the behest of not our Queen, but Escaflowne himself.”

            Arthur’s eyes brightened a bit. “ _Escaflowne_ …asked to keep the barrier up?”

            “Yes.” Lancelot smoothed a palm along his partner’s jawline. Arysariel wiggled his tongue, in agreement with his master. “We, as Earthborn, must understand our place in this world. Gaea is the plane where the body, heart, mind and spirit have unified. The Dragons were here before us; they know more about this plane than we do. We’ve looked to them for strength and guidance for centuries. First, there were three—and now, their offspring. The three, here, are the grandchildren of the Maiden and the Fen; Escaflowne, as their uncle, is a son.” Lancelot smiled at Arysariel’s signature gesture of affection: Nuzzling foreheads. “Our bonds with the Dragons are very important to maintain harmony. Nature prospers when there is peace. Your discordance with Escaflowne can be felt outside you both…The barn owls up there”—he pointed to the pair hooting softly—“flew in to see Escaflowne because they sensed his anxiety.”

            They decided to take off back into the night. One by one, the barn owls cooed their farewells. Percival watched them go, smiling at the smallest of them. Bastet blinked at it.

            “But…is Escaflowne afraid of me? Did I do something to frighten him?”

            “Dragons’ll never be afraid of us, lad,” Gawain threw in. “If anything, they’re afraid _for_ us. He probably senses your self-doubt, and is unsure how to comfort you. He ain’t sure if he’s ready to face you. He needs more time to give to himself…to forgive himself.”

            Arthur’s eyes lowered. More cranks sounded off in his head. _“To forgive himself…?”_

 

* * *

The Mystic Moon provided solace to Escaflowne. A breeze whipped. The noble tree’s umbrage clapped.

            Its growth was a fascinating sight: One who’d been watching over its progress, Escaflowne couldn’t believe how well it was thriving. Its root system was so engrained into the Vestiges that it became a crucial part of it. He could remember the inner wall that stood before, and the Queen’s complaints about the view. It blocked the horizon, she’d whined a bit. Once wartime dwindled, she was astounded by a stray boulder that’d struck the very same wall. Enough had withstood the blow, and it provided a much better view.

            Around that time, she’d discovered a sapling. A _Rakshara_ maple, a rare breed. Its trunk sprouted from within the rubble, and its roots spread along the rampart’s remains. The “tree” was actually its pinnacle. Curvy and twisted, knotted and stripped. What was invisible was the tree within the ruins. It was something that fascinated Escaflowne and Queen Larynn.

            Her smile made him bow his head. His four draconian eyes were tinged with guilt.

* * *

 

“Maybe I’ll get a better understanding about me and Escaflowne…if I learn how you guys came to understand your partners.”

            The night sailed over the stories the Viceroyalty had a chance to share. Arthur paid close attention to each one. Surely, everyone’s were bound to be unique. Almost like a child who wanted to be read to, the King sat attentively.

            “Well,” Gawain decided to start, “there ain’t nothing too exciting about my story. I met Valborga when I was a wee one. It was after I started traveling with the Doyen, sometime before heading to Fanelia…”

_Only a youngster, Gawain accompanied Gustavio on his behest to the Valris Monastery. There, he trained and met the Prelate, a brother-in-spirit to Gustavio. He was taught discipline, etiquette, and learned about the friary’s responsibilities to Gaea and his history._

            “I stayed in Valris Sal’chiara during that time. I trained a lot, and learned the ways of the monks there…but one day, the Prelate told me to get dressed one early morn and follow him somewhere.”

_The Valrisian Prelate led the echidna boy down into the Monastery’s deepest corridors. A maze entered the rear of another. A pair of torchlights could distinguish a transformation from steely granite to rubescent crystal. Slipping through the narrowest of niches, the boy and the elder reached the Earthblood Cavity. There, awaiting them, were the Adamantine Dragon, Diamant and the Bullion Dragon, Garza. Snuggled in-between sat an egg…_

            “…His parents were big, so I was intimidated, at first.” Valborga’s snores made the 2nd Viceroy chuckle. “But I was told to come back when the egg hatched. When it did, it was the day the Doyen and I were supposed to head out to Fanelia…so I returned, and received his parents’ blessing. They, practically, entrusted him to me, so…I guess I’m _his_ guardian. Y’know, instead of the other way ‘round.”

            Arthur took note of the reminiscent look on Gawain’s face. Thinking back, the echidna sighed heartily.

            “Ahh, We’ve been together ever since. Hikin’, huntin’, gettin’ lost, and nappin’ under the sun…Those times were always good. We had one hell of a time tryin’ to fish—he doesn’t take too kindly to water—but he was a’right with being a perch. We worked hard on this bond. Not just me, an’ not just him; we had to do it together. Man, it took a while for us to get along…but now, we’re inseparable. Like brothers, yea?”

            Suddenly, a snort. Valborga’s acrid breath had escaped through his nostrils, as if redirecting a cough. Following soon after was a hum.

            It was true: The Viceroy and the Earth Dragon had bonded on such a tight-knit level. Was it possible for Arthur and Escaflowne to do the same? The prospect sounded promising, but he’d already noticed the shape his relationship with the Tempest was taking. Maybe a different story would solidify that theory?

            Before he knew it, Valborga had fallen back asleep. According to Gawain and the Doyen, Valborga took more after his mother, but inherited his father’s mild narcolepsy. It was something the echidna found exasperating at times, especially during their travels together. Falling asleep mid-trek, the Earth Dragon plopped down in the middle of Titanic Plains once or twice. The annoyance had transformed into a favorite pastime, since then.

            It made Percival smile.

            “What about you, Percival? Got a fun story to tell us?”

            Looking to Arthur, she spied enthusiasm in his face. She let out a sigh, veering her eyes away. “My story with Bastet isn’t fun, per se…but an adventure, nonetheless.” Her partner locked eyes with her. Then, cooed sweetly. The Viceroy couldn’t help smiling at her. “When I was a young girl, I was learning ladies’ etiquette. Tableware placements, how to eat, speak and sit, and things. But my true passion lied in learning how to be a gentleman.”

_Little Percival could sit with a stack of books on her head, easily. She held her teacup and sipped, pinkie extended, with astonishing ease. Her tutors applauded her. They’d predicted that to be a good noblewoman someday._

_But in her room, she practiced fencing with a long branch. Slashing, parrying, and lunging carefully, as not to disturb her sleeping parents._

            “I wanted to protect the citizenry, not end up on a man’s arm without notice. My parents wanted me to marry a handsome aristocrat—perhaps an earl under the Mercrusian estate. But I wanted to learn swordsmanship, so I would sneak out of my etiquette class to watch the boys train. I’ve learned all that I know by sight…?”

            “You learned swordsmanship—by sight?” Arthur had to ask, both hands on his knees, now.

            To which Percival giggled. “Yes, mostly. And one day, I gathered my courage and ran away from home…to Asturia, where I aspired to become a Knight of Caeli.”

_Young Percival looked unhappy on the tutor’s arm during those sessions. She knew what to do and how to act during conversations. It’d gotten boring, after a while. She decided to lie about going to the ladies’ parlor, and snuck off her parents’ property to watch the Mercrusian Knighthood squires practice._

_Borrowing a practice sword, she quickly realized how much heavier than a fallen twig it was. But she practiced, into evening’s rising cover, every day. As they grew, so did her drive to become an Asturian Knight of Caeli. Finally, on a cool summer night she packed for the trek, left a runaway’s letter, took her steed, and was off to Asturia…_

            “…My trip ended up being all for naught, for I was rejected due to my femininity. Dismayed and heartbroken, my months’ worth of courage was gone—dashed in an instant. I couldn’t return home, and I found myself stranded in a city I didn’t know. I cried into the night, all alone and chilled by the summer’s cool breaths. Somehow, in my despair, I’d found Bastet.”—Her partner nuzzled her shoulder—“She, herself, was crying, too…I’d thought her cries were of a lost child, so I searched for a source. Then, past some brush, I spied Bastet near a brook, curled up and sobbing. She was the first Draconian I’d ever since, so I was afraid to approach her. In fact, I think we were afraid of each other…?”

_Seeing Bastet all alone tugged at the young girl’s empathy. Strangely, her etiquette training kicked in, and she vowed to stay with the baby Dragon till night fell away. Relieved, Percival discovered an odd warmth emanating from the Dragon’s body. She swore it felt…pink. As if the color had a tactile sensation. It was strange—even into the morning._

_The baby was a mysterious being. A shy and nervous creature. Without her mother, Bastet had clung to Percival when she tried to leave. It worked out: Percival could consider herself a knight-errant, but toting a Draconian nestling? She allowed it, without a second thought. After all, they’d become two-of-a-kind._

            “That morning was of cleansing. The woman I’d expected myself to be died for the woman I’ve now become. Bastet is the youngest of the Aerie, and has somewhat childlike tendencies. But her innocence made me grow, learn how to fight, protect the ones I love, even if it meant being branded an outcast or a fool. If I can protect _one_ person with this power, I’ll live a foolish outcast for the rest of my life.” Brave tears rushed down the lady-cat’s cheeks. Bastet’s coo sounded sympathetic. “Bastet helped me discover this inner strength. In my own sadness, I was able to help her through hers…I want to be as brave as I know I can be. So, I will.”

            Arthur held a new admiration for the 3rd Viceroy. Despite the rejections she’d faced, they ended up being fuel for a new strength she’d found within herself. In a way, the Nocturne Dragon helped the young woman grow, not only into a lady, but into a knight. Their love was a mystifying brand, in Bastet seeing Percival like a second mother. Familial bonds seemed to be an overarching commonality between Earthborn and Draconians. So far, Arthur learned about Gawain’s fraternal bond with Valborga, and Percival’s rather maternal bond with Bastet. But what about Lancelot?

            Said Viceroy hummed softly to himself under Percival and Gawain’s explanations. Arysariel could feel his turn coming on, so he shot a glance at his master.

            So did Arthur. “Lancelot? It’s your turn.” The 1st Viceroy’s gaze locked with Arthur’s. It startled him a tad. “I, uh…I know you called Arysariel your…‘dearest friend’, but can you elaborate on that?”

            Lancelot blinked. It was contemplative like a thinker’s blink. Maybe from a recollection? Another blink had buttoned the Viceroy’s eyes shut, this time.

            “Arysariel…is my dearest friend indeed, Sire. He is not so for what he is, but for what he’s done for me all these years. For you see, Your Highness…” A humble bow of his head, and Lancelot’s voice grew deeper and more narrative. “I was raised by Arysariel. I have seen him, as a father figure, ever since I was a babe.”

            Purest astonishment took over Arthur’s features. Percival nodded, as if she’d been cheering for Lancelot to admit it. Gawain smirked as if he’d known, as well. It was something akin to a private knowledge: Only the most elite members of Fanelia’s royalty knew about Lancelot’s upbringing.

            Rightfully so, as Lancelot continued: “The Kingdom of Fanelia opened her arms to me, Milord—graciously accepting me, despite my foreign blood. My heritage lies in the Duchy of Freid. Though, it is deeply shrouded by mystery…”

_An infant Lancelot wailed under the starry night. A woven basket had washed up to a lake’s opposite shore. Sneaking into the forest’s girth, Arysariel took the handle by his jaws and faded into the brush._

_Unsure what to do, the Mist Dragon gnawed on a few leaves, just enough for it to be food for the babe. After some time, his squalling dwindled to a lonesome coo. Sad rubies relinquished tears; hiccups followed after his hunger had been sated._

_Arysariel had never felt so lost in his whole lifetime. It had something to do with the child’s missing parents…_

            “…I am able to say, with pride, that I was raised by Arysariel’s resourcefulness and expansive knowledge of the world.” Coyness marked the Dragon’s flickering tongue. “He toted me everywhere with him. He fed me, clothed me, even taught me how to sing…Learning how to speak in an Earthborn tongue came with its own hassles.”

_From what Arysariel remembered, he had to swim to the next town over in order to retrieve the proper provisions for his growing Lancelot. A waterside village, upstream from the Duchy, was the closest he’d come with the baby’s basket in his mouth. He was even mistaken for a baby thief until a young woman batted off the paranoid brownnosers._

_With compassion in her heart and sweetness in her smile, Arysariel had officially coined her as Lancelot’s “Dragon-mother,” despite being a fellow Earthborn. On a lighthearted whim, the woman accepted the honor and took Lancelot into her care for a while. Never too far away, Arysariel watched Lancelot grow from the waterline’s crest._

            “Nonetheless, Arysariel was pleased—and relieved—by her kindness. Though I do not remember her face or voice very well, my life continued by Arysariel’s side. Time on the eastern side of Floresta Mountains went slow. It is shrouded more densely in mystery than the Forest’s namesake…The people have dispersed, reaching further out towards the seas and isles. My last trek into the territories wasn’t perilous, but my memories became even foggier than they’d been…?”

_The Fortuna Temple had remained grand and majestic. During their stay, Lancelot and Arysariel learned a lot from Freid’s pontiffs—the Praktu. The Barrier Sword, Durendal, was successfully retrieved under the hood of the Temple’s pinnacles._

_As he made his way back under evening’s cover once again, Lancelot didn’t know why he was recalling a garden, an elusive gown, and pink butterflies…_

            “…What _can_ you remember, Lancelot?”

            Concern marked the King’s voice. The black hedgehog’s countenance had collapsed from a mild surprise. Arsyariel felt it in his master’s tensing muscles. He lifted his eyes to see Lancelot’s: Hesitation. A deep breath; then, its release. It made his fellows wonder, but he quelled their thoughts by saying, “I am, slowly and steadily, gathering pieces of a past I do not recognize. What I can say…is that it is one much more intertwined with the fate of Guinevere Dahlia than I am able to admit….”

 

* * *

 

Carnations had strayed into Guinevere’s rose garden. An exclusive sanctuary to match her tastes and house her Draconian partner, Linde wondered how it had gotten there. She snipped it tenderly from its bed behind the canopy. Such sharp nails shouldn’t have been able to hold something so delicate. Nevertheless, Linde made a conscious effort to bring it to Guinevere unharmed. Resolute glides dodged the shorter varieties. Well-grown vines dangled from tree limbs. Interred stepping stones guided her right up to Guinevere’s bed.

            Persephia leered at Linde’s advance. Nothing passed between the lady-swallow and the Rose Dragon. Linde gave the carnation another thoughtful glance before going down on a knee.

            “Lady Guinevere? May I enter your canopy?”

            A new title: It wasn’t one Guinevere could ever get used to. Especially, if it fell from the lips of her comrades.

            “Linde…?”

            The other woman’s icy eyes warmed with concern. “Milady, ‘tis I, indeed.”

            “Oh…Then…yes. Please.”

            She did so, returning to her feet and bringing back one side of the spider’s silk. Just past the veil, the lady-bat’s comely figure assailed Linde’s view. Without a strip of garb or plate of armor, Guinevere laid unguarded. Lovely mounds—bare and blushing under a bronzed tone. Buxom hips. Firm calves and lithe arms. Snowy fur from the patch on her tail cinched her waist, markings blessed by a love goddess. Her nails were painted; the biggest toe showed a pink-diamond ring. Just like the one on her left ring-finger.

            Much to Linde’s shock. “M-…Milady?”

            “Linde…I did it.” A brutal honesty assailed Linde’s ears next. “I’m his, now. I did it. He promised me my hand in marriage if I brought him Lancelot’s head…!” A disturbing, but heart-rending, glee had taken over Guinevere’s face. “He promised to marry me, if I killed Lancelot…my darling knight…my master’s enemy…but my…my lovely…Guh…Hnggh!”

            Panic flashed in the swallow’s eyes. “Guinevere! Hold it together! Don’t lose yourself!” She threw herself on top of the naked woman before she had a chance to seize. Her heart broke every time it happened. But now that Guinevere’s mind was being played with like a toy, her body was responding in utmost unkind—by physically rejecting the truths she’d learned. Linde had to snap her out of the illusion the Emperor had locked her in.

            At a loss, she wept. “Guinevere, you’re breaking…! Your body is breaking! Your body know it’s a lie—why won’t you fight it?!” Her voice cracked a little. “I… _love_ you. I love you, Guinevere. Why won’t you see me the way I see you? He’s forcing you to love him when you know you can’t. Lancelot is a lost cause, and the Emperor is subjugating you to this… _suffering_ because he wants you to never forget it!”

            Her hands felt the other woman’s face. Drool trailed over the slight crook in Guinevere’s lips. Maiden-blue eyes rolled under fluttering eyelids.

            “Muhh…My…Emperor…Lancelot…”

            Linde shook her head in disbelief.

            “Emp-…perr…ress…his…emp-per-ess…I—?”

            The bat-woman’s breaths were snatched from her. Gasping, she fell into a cycling hyperventilation. Barely able to breathe out, her face began to turn blue.

            “It’s the Fortune! It’s exacerbating her body’s rejection of it! Dammit!” She whipped out another vial of a different colored liquid. It was a more transparent claret than Fortune’s near-black transfused blood. “He’s making her take this damned blood, knowing its damaging aftereffects…!” She ripped the syringe’s cap off, snapped the vial into it, and gripped Guinevere’s arm. A low-grade seizure had little time before boiling into a bigger one. Linde had to work quickly.

            Persephia slithered away, feeling a sense of helplessness for her master.

            “Guinevere, please! Don’t do this to me again!” With all her might, she pinned down the woman’s arm and stuck the needle into it. A distressed whine gave confirmation of it. “Don’t let his words sway you! You’re not his Empress, Gwynnie…!” Much bolder tears flew from the Most Intelligent Dragonslayer’s eyes. “You’re mine!”

            Some even landed on her face. As her body calmed, Guinevere’s gaze slowed. It could barely hold onto Linde’s gaze. A coughing spell helped her breathe again. Unlike most times before, she was able to stay awake. She could see the pain in Linde’s face. She felt her tears pelting her own face. Then, her arms raveling around her waist. Holding her close. Sniffles invading her ears.

            It was the first time Guinevere had ever seen Linde cry; it was the first time she’d cried in front of anyone.

            “Be mine, Guinevere. Be the Gwynnie I know and love so dearly. I want you to come back to your senses. Don’t believe anything else that man says to you! He’ll just betray you again!”

            Guinevere was having a hard time understanding Linde. Her words blurred together as they entered her ears. Language scrambled; mental pictures fogged up. It was as though her body had given up on her, refusing to cooperate with her, and ceased to function.

            Persephia nervously returned to Guinevere’s canopy. In her maws were the bed’s fallen sheet and the carnation Linde had dropped. With a frightened carefulness, she passed them to Linde. But the lady-swallow looked past her tears and whispered, “That carnation was red when I picked it. How is it gilded?”

            She turned her sights to the Rose Dragon, Persephia.

            “But…I’m the Empress of Zaibach.”

            A dangerous grade of emptiness had filled in for Guinevere’s loss for words. It was as if something was speaking for her. Linde’s eyes were glued to the—now, yellow-trimmed—carnation. With no self-awareness, Guinevere simply said the only thing on her mind.

            “He loves me because I’m the Empress of Zaibach…I am loved because I am his Empress…”

            The carnation spoke to Linde. The tactician’s heart bended. It spoke judgment on her: “Disdain” and “Rejection”. Angry tears coursed from her eyes.

            “The Emperor is going to marry me because he loves me.”

 

* * *

 

The Fanelia Castle grounds slept while Arthur crossed through the garden. He followed Lancelot, who’d offered further counsel for him and Escaflowne, into the hedge maze. Ivies curled in on themselves like sleeping snakes. A hardy snail hid in the foliage, upon which nighttime dew settled. It cooled the garden, just below what Arthur preferred. _“Autumn is coming, after all,”_ he’d thought as he felt a chill.

            Halfway under the Chrysanthemum Pavilion, Arthur stopped. Lancelot sensed it almost immediately.

            “Milord?”

            “Sorry, um…Do you see him?”

            Lancelot peeked around the column and spied a broad tail. It was curved upward, whipping back and forth in a meditative rhythm. “Yes, he is resting next to the Queen’s _Rakshara_.”

            King Arthur pumped a fist. “Okay…” He closed his eyes. _“Perseverance…kindness…and trust. That’s what the Viceroys learned with their partners. Now, it’s_ my _turn.”_

            With a bravery rekindled, Arthur straightened his back, took a deep breath, let it out, and ironed his steps. “Let’s do this.” He marched out. Steely resolve carried one foot in front of the other. Whether Escaflowne was ready or not, Arthur was on his way. He left the Pavilion. In doing so, he also left Lancelot to his thoughts.

_Laughter…_

_Pink butterflies herded into the rose-laden grove. Tickling tree trunks, they flittered to escape joyful hands from catching them. A snow-haired woman caught two in her hands and timidly opened them. A red-streaked man walked over just in time to see the butterflies fly away. Daytime rays bounced off each wingbeat; rays danced across the field’s blushes._

_“Look here.”_

_The woman looked up, and smiled. One more butterfly had landed on the man’s nose. The very tip: It perched there, calm and still. Its wings mesmerized the woman. “Oh my, it’s not afraid of you. No fair.”_

_“Florestan butterflies are a tad more oblivious to danger than Ispanian ones.”_

_“Oh! You’ve been to the Ispano region?”_

_“Yes, I have….”_

_The daylight shined so radiantly…_

            Lancelot clutched his chest. “…Just like her smile.”

 

 

_A better understanding of who you are…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Notes: English translation(s) to Gaean words/phrases:
> 
> Hahash’ameyyebah / "Ha-haash ah-mai-yah-baah" - lit. "All's right with you" or "Everything's alright."
> 
> In this story, the "Rakshara" tree is basically Gaea's version of a Japanese maple. Since it's a deciduous variety, its leaves are green during the warm seasons and turns bright-red throughout the fall. Its massive trunk grew into the Vestige ruins, marking its age at a little over 800 yrs. old. "Rakshara" means "Red Hood" in Gaean, in reference to the Queen's cape design when it was manipulated by her Magistralis Ensign.


	31. Taking flight...Our first flight

Event Thirty-One

 

 

The wind paused for the King and Tempest’s reunion.

            The Vestiges, in their stony antiquity and humble service, stood to support their view across Titanic Plains. Leas rolled. Pale Sylphs danced over jade Dryads, skipping about to entertain the huddles under the grayscale spears. Distant pastures kept herds of livestock; shepherds wrangled their charges by lamplight. A cowbell rang across the fields.

            Barely escaping earshot of Escaflowne. His broad tail meandered at his back; his wings drooped. He closed his eyes—all four of them.

            “I’m here, Escaflowne.”

            King Arthur sounded resolute. Strong. But also, patient and caring.

            Escaflowne’s thoughts broke away to heed the blue hedgehog’s words. They sounded deeper than denoting his presence or even the fact that he was standing right behind him. It felt different. To Escaflowne, it felt familiar.

            Almost like…?

            “I need you, as you need me. We’re in this together…Just you and me.”

            Enough for his eyes to snap back open.

            “I know you destroyed Old Fanelia all those centuries ago. I know you loved Queen Larynn with all your heart, and pledged your allegiance to her and all the heirs after her. I know you love Fanelia. She changed your heart, didn’t she? She’s the reason why you can’t turn your back on us, isn’t it?”

            Escaflowne’s tail laid flat on the ground. It didn’t move. It didn’t flinch.

            “She was the only Earthborn you could trust, wasn’t she?”

            A meek caw: Escaflowne’s throat began to ache. His eyes began to moisten.

            “And she saw you destroy her home…She knew you were just afraid, that you thought those bad people had taken her from you, so she sang to you…to tell you that everything’s alright. That…”—a tear strolled down Arthur’s cheek—“she forgives you.”

 

_The Queen’s song lifted to the swirling heavens._

_Her song, alone, was an answered prayer to the Draconian’s wounded heart._

“Nyhakthe’id lu…  
Nyhakthe’id sarrh…  
Nyhakthe’id lu…  
Nyhakthe’id mal…”

_With open arms, the Queen sang._

“Nyhakthe’id lu…  
Nyhakthe’id kohl…  
Nyhakthe’id lu…  
Nyhakthe’id baïth…”

_Healing verses washed over the Tempest’s understanding._

 

            “…She forgives you, Escaflowne. After all these years, the ones you felt like you had to make up for, her soul”—he patted his chest—“ _here,_ inside me, weeps for you! She’s sorry because she feels responsible for the anxiety _you_ burdened _yourself_ with!”

            The Dragon snapped his sights back at Arthur. Tears. There, streaking down his cheeks, under imploring emeralds. A half-nibbled bottom lip.

            “These tears aren’t just hers—they’re mine, too! I’m hurting because I don’t know what I did to break our Oath…if I did _any_ thing! Please tell me!”

            A bit taken aback, Escaflowne gawked at Arthur’s impassioned advances.

            “Did I hurt your feelings somehow? Did I offend you? Was it when I kept pushing you to tell me?” He grappled a fist, and his composure. But the tears kept flowing. “I get it, now! You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to! Just…go back to your snarky self. Go back to back-sassing me, or snipping at my jokes and poking fun at me…back to eating with me and flying with me…! Go back to being yourself.”

Escaflowne listened. His heart calmed. The edge in his anxiety ebbed.

 

_To them, the heavens calmed._

“Yhüm al’tahl mal’nyhn, tirrh’nyhn sorrhe’bijh…  
Se nyha ro tirrh, se mahal tihm-lihmmi…”

_For them, the heavens rayed._

 

            “I feel like the odd one out. I haven’t gotten to sleep under the stars with you, yet…y’know?”

            Much like the child he never knew, Escaflowne watched Arthur cry for a little while. “I’m the one trying to cheer you up, though…” he cursed at himself, unable to keep his tears away. “Jeez…Talk about major feels. Was the Queen a crybaby like this, too?” The Dragon’s heart smiled at the King’s loving complaints. “They just…won’t stop…” the hedgehog sniffled.

_SSS-LICK!_

            Finally, that familiar gesture of love between a Draconian and their master. Their own signature, Escaflowne found the heart to slather his tongue against Arthur’s face. Like seeing an old friend after a long separation, Arthur’s face lit up. “Heh! ‘Atta boy! There’s the Escaflowne I know! I missed you, buddy…!”

            Like never before, King Arthur wound up sobbing even more from the loving gesture. It told him that the Oath was never broken, and that Escaflowne was feeling better. The partners-in-arms shared a reunited nuzzle: Escaflowne’s forehead stroked against Arthur’s cheek. The hedgehog’s big grin served as a major relief, a magnificent sight, and enough to soothe his own soul—as a descendant of Queen Larynn.

            The wind cooled the tension down to a stillness. So, it was time for Escaflowne to seize the only moment he could prove himself to Arthur.

            A wondering chirrup. Then, a nudge at his arm. His beak brought up one of Arthur’s hands, much to the King’s bewilderment. There, he could see a greenish glow—one much stronger than before.

            No words: Arthur gawked at Escaflowne. The Dragon simply nodded. And so did Arthur.

            “Yeah. Let’s go for it.”



* * *

 

 

The titanic sky was fairly overcast towards the east. Rainclouds seemed to skulk over the Ispano Region and head for the Floresta Mountains’ southern range. It was taking a while, since the cloud cover was so large.

            But it didn’t bother Escaflowne in the slightest. Arthur clenched the reigns as the Tempest Dragon took him higher and higher. He locked his ankles into the stirrups. Air curled around his ears. A determined gleam flickered in his eyes.

            “You ready for this, Esaflowne?”

            A sharp caw sounded just as excited as Arthur.

            “Alright. Lancelot said that I need to merge my Ensign and Caliburn with our Oath…? Not sure how we’re gonna do it, but let’s give it a shot!”

            Escaflowne’s wings created a streaming slice through the cloud cover; they were like a knife through butter. A strong trill, and that was Arthur’s cue.

            Arthur brought out Caliburn. “Alright! Magistralis: _Incido_.” Greenish sparkles lined the sword-blade for a brief moment before Arthur brought it up to his face. The crests on his gauntlets flashed, and a green gust converged under Arthur’s protective hand. Soon, his Ensign projected itself in front of him. It strongly resembled the Fanelian crest, with a few deviations: Like the six wings surrounding the dragon’s body. Then, as if to dice it and the encroaching clouds, he slung the sword around—reminiscent to Lancelot’s style—and made one more grand swipe. “Caliburn, slash!” The green dervishes were absorbed into the blade; a distinct radiance confirmed the Broadsword’s awakened state.

            Escaflowne soared higher and higher, yet. Fervor blazed in both the King and Tempest’s eyes.

            “Let’s go—Escaflowne!”

            A mighty shriek commanded the heavens to barrel away. The Draconian flared his wings outward, holding both open and wide. Their emerald pauldrons flashed to life, giving off a mystical, yet powerful, glow. At his command, the cloud cover dispersed.

            In its place, in a perfect circle, was a magical seal. Thurgic runes swelled around. It was big enough to give Arthur and Escaflowne space to transform through, and strong enough to keep them in midair. The runes peeled away each and every scale on the Tempest’s body, essentially disassembling him. Much like Lancelot’s transformation, pearlescent plates coated Arthur’s body to protect his head, arms, legs, and back. The Dragon’s helm swore to shield his master’s heart, while his Drag-Energist core became nearly invisible within the armor. A kingly helm constructed itself over Arthur’s face. His wings had devolved, and their webbing was reconfigured into a pair of armor-tipped banners to serve as a cape. Escaflowne’s pauldrons were allocated to Arthur’s shoulder blades, still flashing with power.

            Set ablaze by their power, the newly united wind-masters crashed through the magic circle. It disappeared as briefly as it appeared; an aperture was left in the clouds shortly after it faded away.

            Overall, the King was very, very impressed. “Yahoo! We did it, Escaflowne!”

            Soon after saying so, an odd resonance echoed after Arthur’s voice. Was Escaflowne’s true voice overlapping his own? Thinking for a moment, Arthur’s brows dipped. “Escaflowne…? We Dragonsouled, and it feels…pretty neat. I hope you’re as excited as I am.” He pumped both fists. Then, a gasp. “Whoa…the Earth’s rising. That sounds so weird to say,” he chuckled.

            The pauldrons’ afterburners held them in the air. Grand and magnificent, Gaea’s Mystic Moon rose from the east once more. A mysterious beauty only “Sonic” knew, King Arthur gazed upon it. Suddenly, the Draconian tail he’d gained lowered, curving around his calves.

            He looked down at his hands: Talons—steely and lethal, when used the right way. Still an Earthborn in physique, but Draconian in power. It would serve as the perfect counterbalance to whatever the Zaibach Empire had planned.

            For now, though, “I feel…homesick?” He blinked. Dragon pupils had replaced his Earthborn ones. A sadness threatened to clamor over them. So, he shook his head intensely—as if shaking out a chill. “Get it together, Arthur! This is no time for homesickness.” He smacked his cheeks; then, pumped his fists again. “Hm! This is the perfect opportunity to see how close we’ve gotten.”

            He smiled at the Mystic Moon. “Perseverance, kindness, trust…and faith.” Then, grinning slyly, “Let’s see what we’ve learned. Kill the engines!”

            Magical energy had been keeping the wind-masters afloat. To suddenly lose thrust meant falling out of the sky.

            And, fall they did.

           “Woo hoo-hoo-hoo!” The descent came quickly. No wind. No current. Just gravity and the greensward threatening to smash him—and Escaflowne—to pieces. A familiar jolt of adrenaline flashed through unified nerves. But Arthur merely shut his eyes and smiled with confidence.

_“I believe in you, Escaflowne.”_

            The greensward’s blades whipped back in the breeze.

_“I have faith in you.”_

            Shoulder engines blasted to life. The wind-masters propelled themselves even faster towards the earth, now. Closer and closer, it came. Its steel-gray stalagmites looked like the jaws of a hungry monster.

_“I trust you. So I know I’m safe with you.”_

            So much like them that they gleamed in the Earthshine.

            Of course, in the nick of time, the unified soul leveled out. Barreling through the grayscale obstacles, evasive maneuvers were masterfully impromptu. A shared awareness amplified reaction time, and a shared body strengthened physical reflexes. Arthur wondered about the Titanic Plains’ second-most noteworthy landmarks, afterwards.

            But he left it alone for an actual, as in sunlit, day.

* * *

 

 

The Dragon-souled wind-masters returned to the Stronghold Vestiges. The Queen’s _Rakshara_ maple was ever-present, and welcomed them back. Ironed stirrups braced Arthur’s ankles, and sharpened toenails hooked into the soil for a solid landing.

            His eyes shifted around, looking for something.

            “Lancelot?” When the call went unanswered, a question mark bubbled over Arthur’s head. “Aww…I wanted to show him our new trick,” he whined a little in a dual-tone. Snippiness made his tail whip back and forth. “Ah well. I guess we’ll just have to look for him.”

            Arthur showed Caliburn to the sky. An incantation, presumably akin to Lancelot’s, fell from his lips. Thus, disengaging his Draconiform with Escaflowne. Much like a snake shedding its skin, Arthur found himself as a hedgehog again and Escaflowne—fully assembled and functioning—right behind him. Oddly, when he looked down at his hands, sharp nails remained; astonished, the same was true for his toes. A sweat drop fell along his jawline. _“Escaflowne_ did _warn me about that. Good thing I took my shoes off…?”_

            A gentle caw. More like a call. It snagged Arthur’s attention. “Huh? What is it? Did you find Lancelot?” Arthur’s eyes followed the dragon’s line, but the Earthshine mingled with the darkness. Plus, from that distance, Arthur couldn’t distinguish much from everything else. “I can sorta see the fountain…but not Lancelot. Can you see him? Where are you looking?”

            A rather blank-faced reaction, and Escaflowne pinched the King’s collar into his beak. “Whoa, there! Watch where you put that thing,” he heard his partner whine a little. But the higher perspective made all the difference. Further into the distance, the walls to the sunken amphitheater could be seen. Arthur blinked a little. “Oh. So Lancelot’s there, in Gladiolus Stadium? Hmm…?”

            Escaflowne lowered his master to the ground. Safe and sound, Escaflowne watched the teenage hedgehog processing his thoughts. The dragon’s curious head tilt; then, the hedgehog’s wondering hum.

            “Yikes. I don’t remember how to get there from here, though…” Arthur sighed a bit hopelessly. “It’d be easier if you flew me over, Esca— _Hey?!_ ”

            Strong wingbeats. The Tempest had taken to the air already. Leaving Arthur in his proverbial—and literal—dust. Grass blades lost their hold, forcing Arthur to shield his face. “Hey! Hey, wait! C’mon—take me with you! Please?!”

            Another blank-faced reaction. Shortly after, a cold departure.

            “Escaflowne! Hey, don’t leave me! Rrrrgh…!” Wobbly tears drained from comically lifeless eyes. Fangs gritted and hands trembling, Arthur grumbled. “He left me to suffer through this maze all by myself…!” Both palms steadied him onto all fours. Awkward tears receded to give way for a smug smirk. He watched Escaflowne bank into the coliseum. “Heh heh…Good to have you back, buddy.”

* * *

 

Amaranth Maze’s sleeping globes didn’t help King Arthur’s inner compass all that well, since the night’s veil eliminated depth’s inklings. He was left to feel around, pick up his feet, and nearly stumble through the pathways. “Ouch!” and “Ah!” leapt from his mouth occasionally.

            Finally, after what felt like forever and two days, King Arthur finally found a clue to where he was: A gladiolus stalk. Sleeping, but visible.

            He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. “Huh. Look at that. I found it.” A super-deformed version of himself was cheering in the back of his head. _“Yay_ _~!”_ he praised with both fists, caught by a freeze-frame leap. Somehow, it made Arthur stifle a chuckle.

            Continuing on, Arthur found that notable coliseum. That training arena, which was surprisingly occupied. The field adjacent, as well, its tall grass nestling the other Draconian Aerie members. The newly arrived Escaflowne was there, too—much to Arthur’s annoyance. But his feeling was overshadowed by an unexpected rise in alarm.

            His Viceroyalty was present there, as well. To a mystifying degree, Escaflowne seemed to be monitoring them. From his perch atop the coliseum’s wall, his eyes never deviated. He was watching something unfold with a great intensity.

            Percival remained on the sidelines. Arthur picked up her murmuring with his Ensign’s power: Something Gustavio described as “Wind Whispering.”

            _“Please, stop…Gawain, no…_ ”

            Gawain and Lancelot were at each other’s throats. But Lancelot was the one lying on the ground.

 _“What the hell—?!”_ Arthur dashed down the stairs.

            Out of the blue, Gawain had punched Lancelot in the stomach. The blow was deceptive in strength, but its force was apparent. A shockwave rippled through the 1st Viceroy’s body, rattling the core of his bones. It caused his knees to buckle, and his back to bend forward. Lost breaths gasped. At the echidna’s feet, Lancelot huffed and coughed; he must’ve been enduring quite a beating.

            “Get up,” came the 2nd Viceroy’s heartless order. “…Traitor.”

            “Gawain, stop this!” Percival cried, sounding more like a damsel than a dame for the first time. “Lancelot is our comrade! He has our trust, we should treat him in kind!”

            “I’m not going to ‘treat’ this warmonger any longer than I have to!”

            Arthur felt like he missed something—something big. Lancelot, a warmonger? Gawain’s patience had worn so exceedingly thin, it was about to tear. Had he and Lancelot gotten into an altercation? But what about? All civility had been thrown out the window, for some reason. It was enough to render Percival powerless. The Draconian Aerie only watched intently; not even Valborga or Arysariel stepped into the fray. Arthur couldn’t fathom why.

            How could they simply watch Lancelot being beaten to a pulp?

            “Gawain?” Almost at a loss for how to ask, Arthur went on, “What are you saying? What’s happened here?”

            Everyone’s attention went to Arthur’s arrival. Percival bowed her head in shame, while Gawain turned to face his king. Lancelot couldn’t rise any higher than his elbow.

            “Stand down, Gawain, and explain yourself.”

            “Tch.” With no choice but to obey, Gawain yielded. His explanation was without much sympathy, but brimming with resentment: “As one-sided as this looks, Highness, I must emphasize my position on this matter. It’s been a long time coming…for me to accept this litter-trash into your Kingdom’s ranks. Regardless of power or resolve, there’s one thing I will _always_ hate about him, Your Lordship.” Tanzanites burned as he glared at Lancelot. “It’s his trickery. He’s lied to you, Arthur—to all of us! He’s never been one of us, and never shall he be!”

            A vein throbbed at Arthur’s temple. “What do you mean? He’s been honest with me this whole time! I was able to Dragonsoul because he taught me how! What nonsense are you going on about, now? Tell me, Gawain— _for real,_ this time—why do you hate Lancelot so much?”

            “You cannot see through his lying eyes, Lord? You do not see that he is the enemy?!”

            Gawain’s pointing finger was like a nail through Lancelot’s heart. He couldn’t deny the merit in his fellow’s accusations. Just as easily, he couldn’t accept them either. Buried memories burst into bloom while tension rose. Biting eyes demanded space between Percival and the quarreling men. Still a lady, it stung to see her fellows fighting each other like this. It made her weep inside. It was only a matter of time before her tears cascaded.

            Bastet looked to her master for comfort. Downturned half-moons denoted her sadness and worry. Her eyes shined an emotional blue, full of empathy.

            Rich emeralds quivered. Disbelief shook the King. “Wait…what? The…the enemy?” His voice denoted how rattled he was by the accusation.

            Even so, Gawain’s rage boiled out of its pot—almost reminiscently—as he continued to explain himself. “Yes, Lord, _our_ enemy…The enemy to all the world! Warmongers’ blood stomps through this heathen’s veins! His past…! The Doyen _knew_ …yet accepted his word of _nonexistent_ faith to this kingdom! Lies! This heathen has breathed nothing but lies, and I _refuse_ to listen to any more!”

            Another swift kick, and Lancelot went tumbling across the arena. Viceroy Percival couldn’t watch anymore. Her body shook. She threw her eyes away from the merciless sight, causing tears to fly. Bastet wrapped her within her wings.

            Desperate hands scraped against the surface. Halted now, and steadying himself, Lancelot huffed, “Please…Gawain.”

            Angry amethysts scalded the beaten Viceroy’s conscience. “You’ve no right to beg me for anything, Traitor.”

            “I beseech you, please…Let me tell him.” Lancelot’s face held a nauseous tinge. He pushed himself up, only to barely lift beyond his elbow. “Please, fellow…I—?”

            “I am no fellow of yours.”

            Lancelot froze.

            The past that Gawain had tried, in vain, to bury returned to the surface once more. The echidna advanced; pure rage had taken over his features, now. “ _Your_ armies slaughtered my family, razed my village to ashes, solely to spearhead a campaign for world dominance! _Your_ soldiers kill the men, rape the women, and enslave the children!”

            Arthur clenched his fists. “Gawain! That’s enough! You know _none_ of that is Lancelot’s fault! Give it a rest!”

            “That Witch, Guinevere, is broken because of _his_ people’s actions!”

            Lancelot had flinched. Tears of his own welled up, attempting a suicidal fall from his chin. Weary rubies trembled. As much as it pained him to hear it, Lancelot knew Gawain was right. “Please, I beg you! Don’t say anymore!”

            But the 2nd Viceroy hiked a foot and slammed it down on Lancelot’s head. A pained cry fled from the 1st Viceroy’s lips. Metal soles could’ve branded the whole side, with all that anger he’d brought down.

            “What merit have your words now, Lancelot?” Gawain’s words held very little sympathy. “Everywhere you go, misfortune follows. The Doyen’s hidden quite the tale about you, Knight of Merle Lake. Especially your roots to the Empire of Zaibach.”

            Lancelot stammered, “Please…no, I—!”

            “Lo, King Arthur, the truth! The Knight of the Lake relinquishes his true identity!” Gawain’s voice dropped to an uncharacteristically frightening rumble. Under further narration, Gawain leaned more onto Lancelot. As if he wanted to smash a watermelon. “Say it, cradle-filth! Say who you really are, and speak your true intentions…to _our_ king!”

            More tears crept over Lancelot’s eyelids. Unyielding pressure made his skull throb; almost tempting death. He moaned a little, under a swirling tide of emotion and the embarrassment of facing everyone in such a disgraced manner. Old memories made the torrent thrash, demanding release, before miring towards a mental breakdown.

            Gawain snapped, “Say that your _true_ allegiance is to the Zaibach Empire!”

            —“Gawain! Enough!”

            A swirling wind knocked Gawain through the air. A green dervish crashed into his blindside, freed Lancelot, and flung him across the arena into a stone column. Unbelievable force whipped dust and grass every which way, after a moment’s notice. The force brought the column down on top of Gawain. Edged rocks crashed loudly throughout the stadium. It wasn’t enough to make Valborga flinch, however. Seemingly unconcerned, he was roused from his slumber and waited for the slightest movement in the pile.

            Percival gasped. “Gawain!” she cried after the dust began to clear.

            Arthur huffed for breath. The magic seal before his palm disappeared, and the dust cloud settled into a disparaged float before settling on the field. A rabbit or two hopped for safety, while a flock of blackbirds cawed over the umbrage. Under their departure, Arthur ran over to Lancelot.

            The knees of Arthur’s trousers lost their uppermost layer in his rush. “Lancelot! Lancelot, are you okay?!” A careful lift, then Arthur let Lancelot lay against him. “Lancelot? It’s gonna be okay. Just hang on, we’re taking you to the Infirmary….”

            Lancelot’s consciousness was leaving him: His muscles burned from the intense beating. His heart ached from Gawain’s tirade, Arthur’s confusion, his own embarrassment, and Percival’s anguish. Had the future lied to him?—was the Round Table a fabrication for misfortune? His mind blackened from the humiliation. He couldn’t even look his king in the eye. His voice was leaving him, like the woman’s distant calls.

_“Lancelot! …My Lancelot! Please, save me! …”_

            Unable to endure anymore, Lancelot let whatever awareness that remained slip away.

 

 

_Out of the sky and into restless slumber…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soprano Reaper 777: Hello, all. It's been a while, but I'm just here, hopefully, to continue updating the stories I currently have on hiatus. Don't expect anything new for now; to be honest, I was avoiding posting here because of the problems I was having with the site's editing software... It looks like it's been fixed now. Anyway, the New Year's almost here, so it's time to play catch-up!
> 
> Quick Notes: English translation(s) to Gaean words/phrases:
> 
> The song at the beginning of the chapter is a lyricized version of "Dearly Beloved" from the Kingdom Hearts series. Its meaning can be interpreted in many ways, but it is primarily a song about serenity, gratefulness, and counting one's blessings.


	32. The Knight of the Lake Is Just a Lovelorn Beau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic depiction(s) of violence/slaughter & vore, strong language, mild lewdness, and morally unsettling subjects ahead.
> 
> CONTINUE WITH CAUTION.

Event Thirty-Two

 

2nd Viceroy-Knight Gawain couldn’t help huffing at the stuffiness of the Castle’s Catacombs. His wrists, trapped by the Doyen’s own hands, gave up their struggle midway through the transport. A trusty cell of guardsmen—blue-pinned sergeants—followed them. A secret door lied past a bookcase in the Fanelian Library. At the Doyen’s tilt of one book—a beige tome with gilt trimmings—he’d unlocked the passage for all in his presence.

            It was a path even the King had yet to tread, but it was another token of hidden knowledge Chief-Guardian Gustavio would disclose to him, in time.

            For now, Gawain’s punishment had yet to be decided. Firm braces were revealed under the albatross’s lifted palm. A mystical glow coursed about each cuff; in a way, a suction-like sensation ringed both entrapped wrists. A cautious flicker gleamed every now and again.

            “This prison is reserved for those touched by Nature’s grace, but also blinded by selfishness,” Gustavio began, shoving Gawain inside and locking the bars behind him. “Over time, Nature has graced us Earthborn less and less, due to acts done by those like Emperor Zaibach, his Demon Generals…all the way down to your senseless beating of Lord Lancelot.” He scowled as he spat out the last of his sentence. “Have you no shame? I taught you better than that, Gawain. Now, take your punishment with more refinement.”

            “Wait! _Shkänke_!” The echidna threw his palms against the bars.

            “Do not try to escape, Gawain.”

            Magic glistened all around the cell. A light-gray barrier, in the same sheen as the Viceroy’s cuffs. It even lined the gaps between each bars. Arcane sigils flickered in an ancient tongue nearly lost to time and history. The Doyen was the only one in the dungeon who could read them, as he remembered learning from his acolyte days at the Valrisian Monastery. He translated each one; stringing them together, he recited, “ _Sirlak’shihmmi mudyyn…_ ” Glaring at Gawain once again, he growled, “I’m keeping you here for your own good.”

            “What nonsense is this?” Gawain snapped, “Have that bastard’s ‘good deeds’ made you forget how much ire he holds towards the Crown— _our_ King Arthur?!”

            The hoary albatross sighed through his nostrils. “I’ve thrown you in here to give you a chance to recollect yourself. You’ve lost all composure, Gawain; till Ärlak’s Crest, your rank of Viceroy-Knight will be hereby held in contempt of His Highness’s Court.”

            “C…Contempt? You mean…?” Gawain’s face paled.

            “Your rank will be disregarded by the Cabinet and all the Castle’s hands. You are hereby sentenced to an indefinite span of all-purpose manual labor: There will be no assistance, aside from tools. Neither maid nor groundskeeper will be permitted to assist you. All that needs to be done will be done…by _you_.”

            Gawain gaped at the albatross.

            “Laundry, dishwashing, bath scouring, sweeping, dusting, hedging…the works. If I hear a peep of complaint out of you, I will add an hour to your chores.”

            “But—! But you can’t do that to—?!”

            “Nonsense. Your rank will be disregarded by all Castle residents, including myself and even His Highness. You will be treated like a workhand until you’ve learned the reason why I’ve thrown you in here.” He huffed. “Starting tonight.”

            “What?!”

            “That’s right. Your rank has not been stripped; instead—to humiliate you all the more—it will be disregarded by everyone here. You’ll have to earn our respectful gazes again, Gawain. If anyone has been acting treasonous lately…it is you.” He turned his back on the echidna. “Starting tonight, your first task is to tidy up the Library. You are to work your way outward till you reach the door. Thereafter, sweep and scour the hallway beyond.”

            “But that’ll take up the rest of night’s cover, Doyen!” Gawain snapped back. “You don’t expect me to stay up all night—c- _cleaning_!”

            When the albatross turned his face again, he smiled. “It’d be a lovely surprise to all the hardworking _ladies_ on these ground, would it not?” Chuckling under his breath, he retreated from the dungeon. His voice echoed along the hall. “The guards will supervise you; then, escort you back here when your task is complete. Understand? So, no funny business. If I get a report of a peep of complaint, your next task starts straight away. If you want your sleep, you’ll have to work for it, lad.”

            Without another pause or call, the Chief-Guardian departed. Two guards departed alongside him, behind each shoulder. One from a different pair that’d stayed behind struck the floor with his polearm.

            “You heard the man. On your feet and get started on the Library… _sir_.”

            That bite of derision gnawed deeper into Gawain’s ego than he’d anticipated. A quiet snarl rumbled past his lips’ curl. Without anything more, Gawain allowed the guard to unlock the cell, take up his sleeve, and lead him back outside.

            The last pair took up seats and began to snooze.

            On the exit’s other side, Gawain gawked in disbelief. “Of all the blasted…?!”

            There, without a hint of remorse, Lamorak tossed the tools he’d need to clean the library: A feather duster, washcloth, and broom. Galahad, at his side, placed a pail of soapy water gently onto the hardwood. A somewhat embarrassed blush had dampened his cheeks.

            The green hawk chuckled under his breath. “You’d best hop to it, _Länke_.”

 

* * *

 

An ivory-handled spoon gently stirred a tea infusion. 3rd Viceroy-Knight Percival gave the Head Nurse, Brynn, a hand in tending to Lancelot. Two underling nurses worked quietly around the 1st Viceroy-Knight’s bed, one of them being Nimue. Her partners-in-training, Marina and Vanille, hung back to watch them work. Cloths were dipped into water every now and again; apparently, he’d run a slight fever. Mint swirled through the air, in efforts to calm everyone’s nerves.

            As Percival minded over the tea, the Head Nurse checked Lancelot’s pulse. “It’s weaker than normal…and his body temperature is still unusually high. He must drink something,”—to which Percival nodded—“Please awaken him.”

            “Sure.” Then, Percival turned to Lancelot and whispered into his ear. “ _Ave Vespa_ …Lord Lancelot.”

            After an unsure moment, the hedgehog’s eyelids fluttered open. Cinnamon irises shimmered in the moon’s light. A tiny groan; Percival sighed in relief.

            “All’s well, Lancelot, you’re safe now,” she reassured him, wiping a tear from her eye.

            The black hedgehog sounded disoriented. “M…Majesty? Where is…?”

            Percival smiled gently at him. “His Majesty awaits news of your return to consciousness, as well as Chancellor Miles. Not to mention, our lovely helpers.” She stood away from his bedside, to let him see Brynn, Nimue and her partner, Marina, and Vanille. The first three and Vanille dipped in full curtsies, while Marina showed a bashful half-bow. An embarrassed blush reddened the girl’s cheeks at Percival’s next mention: “Gawain has been detained in the Catacombs, where his punishment is being decided by the Doyen. News on that should follow shortly; for now,”—then, turning to Nimue—“let them in.”

            “Yes, Lord.” Nimue turned somewhat curtly and opened the door for the King and his lieutenant. The blue hedgehog and golden-yellow fox turned to see one of the Infirmary’s doors creak inward. After a shy peek Nimue showed Arthur and Miles an easy smile. “Lord Lancelot has come to. You can come in, now.” A sweet giggle.

            Inside, Lancelot had been assisted by Percival and Brynn in sitting up. Draped under a lightweight sheet, he’d been dressed down to his underclothes—consisting of an undershirt and loose trousers. The lavender cat handed him a soothing cup of tea, to which he thanked her. She turned to Brynn and her assistant, then bowed in thanks before sending them off for the night. The two ladies departed wordlessly.

            At their leave, Arthur approached a window next to Lancelot. Its lancet shape reminded him of a church’s elegance but the easiness of a bungalow. A single latch held the panes together, undone to allow a breeze or two to course through. One came as the thought entered Arthur’s mind. He took it in, held it, and let it out slowly.

            It was a freeing motion. It made Miles smile a bit. Vanille had clung to his arm, her nurse uniform’s ribbon swaying a bit in the breeze. She nuzzled closer, her sunset loafers nudging together bashfully. To it, Miles’s tails frazzled; a just-as-bashful blush blanketed his muzzle.

            “Lancelot.”

            Somehow, an odd air clung to the Infirmary’s walls. To Nimue, it felt serious and melancholy. Her younger partners didn’t seem to pick up on it too much; was she imagining it? Nonetheless, she directed her attention towards the conversation budding between the Fanelian King and his 1st Viceroy.

            Lancelot’s downcast glower peered into the teacup. A bittersweet brew: Glar, a nearly universal healing promoter, wasn’t the best-tasting herb, but it did its job. The knight was practically raised off of it, so he didn’t mind its grainy texture. Though his eyes beheld it, his ears had taken in Arthur’s call. Wearily, crimson eyes looked at him.

            Arthur’s half-cape fluttered. Gracefully, Arthur had knelt before Lancelot. With a kind smile, he took the black hedgehog’s bare hand into a gentlemanly clasp. His palm didn’t feel too rough. Fascinated, Arthur noted that the striking cherry along his forearm halted at the top of his hand—in the shape of an inverted cross. He looked away to see the Viceroy’s eyes. His own eyes smiled. “Are you feeling alright?”

            “Your Highness….” Lancelot lowered his gaze. The tea was just shy of being gone. “…I am, yes. By a tad. My stress fever has broken, I’m told.”

            “Yes, indeed,” Percival remarked, nodding thankfully.

            “That’s great,” Arthur expressed his relief. “I was really worried that serious harm had been done to you. You know how Gawain gets sometimes.” His brows cinched together. “But what I don’t understand…is why there’s so much contention between you two. Did something happen in the past—was there some kind of a quarrel between you and him? It sounded… _way_ too personal, to me.”

            Percival held her peace. Her hands stayed in a lady’s clasp behind her back. Sorrowful ambers diverted to the floor. Nimue noticed it immediately; the pink hedgehog wanted to hold her hand, but it was something she wanted to understand, as well.

            “Even with their vicious bite, Gawain’s words…are, in fact, true.”

            Shame tinged the 1st Viceroy’s eyes, bringing them lower, away from the King’s befuddled glare. “What are you saying, Lancelot?” he heard Arthur retort and saw him get back on his feet. “Gawain was just trying to get under your skin. He said those hurtful things to you…disregarding you as a _person_! _That_ is a direct offense to me and my Court! It was too low of a blow…but you’re saying it’s…?”

            “Your Highness. Please understand.” He set his teacup aside. The quiet clink of china fled as soon as it’d came. “It is not me that Gawain resents. It is my blood, my heritage, for it was the Zaibach Empire that has brought him so much grief.” The Earthshine peered in, as if to listen in on the explanation, as well. “I can understand his misgivings; I share those very sentiments with him. Zaibach…snatched his whole world from under him. It was cruel. Inhumane. Unrighteous, and selfish.” The Viceroy closed his eyes. “I can think of no other way to describe such barbarism. As advanced as they are, they have lost touch with the Earthwork and its mercies. It is my grave confidence that the Empire plans to destroy us all, and usher in a new age of chaos and sadness.”

            The admittance made Nimue gasp, clapping her hands over her mouth.

            “We can’t let that happen,” Miles interjected with a clenched fist. “Their _own_ lives will be thrown into jeopardy—tempting the Lifeblood’s wrath like that! They’re _begging_ to die!”

            “Not die. Reach immortality.”

            Percival had already turned her eyes over her shoulder. The correction came from Fanelia’s Chief Guardian, Gustavio Macchus. Dull gold shimmered briefly in the light against his back. At his right was Lancelot’s student, Galahad. Garbed rather formally, the Viceroy’s student wore an asymmetrical half-cloak on his left side. It was a light turquoise, smooth in texture, and emblazoned with the Kingdom’s crest, though less ornate than those of higher ranking.

            Most certainly, compared to Gustavio’s, Arthur’s, and even Lancelot’s.

            “Doyen…” Miles exhaled, almost in wonder at the albatross’s resonant voice.

            Arthur glared back curiously. “What do you mean by that?”

            Entering, the older man crossed his arms. “Just that. The Empire of Zaibach has engrained its roots in darkness—a perception devoid of all things that oppose it. While darkness is the counterbalance for light, it is _very_ unruly and difficult to control. In a way, it can be regarded as ‘selfish’ and ‘demanding,’ since once you begin your tread towards it the light grows more and more distant.” He nodded. “The Emperor, specifically, best exemplifies this allegory…and he worries me the most.”

            The declaration left Galahad, Miles, Percival and her Pages, and even Arthur in a cloud of confusion. Then, Arthur wondered, “The Emperor is our main enemy, correct? I’ve leaned towards the belief that he’s…daunting, at least. What, specifically, makes him the worst of our enemies?”

            A pregnant pause sauntered into the quarters. The Earthshine and wind brought in a sense of foreboding. The Doyen’s response was not immediate, so he must’ve been reflecting on something. Something deep. Before anyone’s suspicions could be sharpened, he heaved a somewhat heavy sigh.

            “Throughout my youth as a missionary from the Valrisian Monastery, I’ve visited many places. Daedalus, Basram, Jajuka Island, even Dilandau Mines’ villages and the Talisian Abbey…but my travels to Zaibach have been astounding, in the most frightening sense.”

 

_During Gustavio’s robust years, he journeyed to the desolate lands of Zaibach with the Prelate. The old owl told him tales of a time when Zaibach was more of a vivacious bustle than a war-torn wasteland._

_Its people prospered, and it was due to the virtuous reign of Emperor Haim Lebbaeus. Well-spoken of by Freid’s Praktu, he was a revolutionary ruler. Aiding the homeless and helpless and feeding the land’s families and orphaned children, he wanted to see Zaibach in its historical glory once again. His military power was unmatched on the eastern side, but he never resigned to senseless violence. With a doubtless iron fist and demure sense of judgment, Emperor Haim was loved by his people._

_So, when word of his sudden passing got out, the land mourned._

_There to succeed him was his only son. But something about him unsettled everyone…_

 

            “…Zaibach was once a beautiful expanse of forest, much like Shrouded Forest to the south of it. An unspeakable plague robbed it of its bounty, then ravaged what was left with war and strife. A conclave of its own was birthed from a common desire to pillage, rape, and destroy what we perceive as beauty.”

            “But…why?” Miles had to ask. Little Vanille cowered into his sleeve.

            “Because what they see is different from what we see. Blinded by the darkness, the people have lost sight of the light and can only cling to falsehoods. A desire may be as real as our grass is blue or our sky is red…”

            Something stung Lancelot’s heart. He remembered that pure-white hem…

            Gustavio caught the Viceroy’s motion from the corner of his eye.

* * *

 

Delicate crystals rained from the sky over the northern half of the Floresta region. The possessive nightscape veiled their splendor, but dawn would rise soon. It had yet to ward off Malundine’s chill. The Demigoddess of the Ethers, and daughter of the Chief Pantheon, had ways of communicating with the Demigod of the Materia, Talsaerin. It was fabled that the Chief Pantheon entrusted the finalized Earthwork to both of them, and prophesized that a “radiant love” would keep the Earthwork in order and prosperity.

            Winter behaved as a peace offering on Malundine and her son, Asärlak’s, behalf. To the Chief God of the Underworld, Mephistopheles.

            Awaiting news in the Ark of Vione, the Emperor continued to stroke the Earthborn crown protruding from the Sacrilege Dragon’s skull. Translucent eyelashes flittered lightly.

_“This is a plague of perception, and the spirits of darkness wish for it…unto eternity.”_

            The alabaster pate was as hard as bone, but milky like an oyster’s pearl. It made the Emperor smile, albeit a sickeningly cruel one. “Soon, my betrothed…soon shall we unite this world under our banner of dominion…”

            Elsewhere in the stronghold, Guinevere Dahlia was dressed in a new outfit of armor: Bulbous pauldrons resembled unborn lotuses, from which wispy magenta banners wafted in the stillness. Black rose-gold armbands were accented with pink diamonds; clawed gloves stuck to every curve on her forearms. Black boots slithered up to her thighs. Matching armor plates shielded her hips and thighs, while another pair encased her knees, calves, and feet. Her wings flickered with the same rose-gold undertones, hinting at joint armor.

            Engraved into those upper plates was Zaibach’s insignia. It featured an ominous eye looking ahead while a foreign Gaean script stretched out from it. Six staves, completely entailing said script, read as a chant of some kind when spoken. As alluded to by the Emperor, it was engraved into each Dragon Slayer’s armor.

            She awaited news, as well. Alongside her was the Rose Dragon, Persephia.

_“The strife between Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere also mirrors this truth.”_

            Her head was covered by a stag’s helm. Such formidable antlers must’ve struck fear into any enemy that challenged the brave male. Its bony cranium possessed a dark-rose polish attuned to her armor. Stitched into each shoulder-banner was a waxing and waning crescent. The last one, trailing between her wings down to her knees, bore a full moon.

            The “Most Beautiful” Dragon Slayer consciously stroked her left ring finger. She remembered her betrothed’s words before sending her off to standby: “Be at the ready, for you shall become my queen—the Empress of Zaibach.” She’d said nothing in return. She’d felt an overwhelming anxiety, but it was quelled by that echoing desire to become his bride.

            Those eyes could not be seen beyond the visor. She kissed that finger. “This world…shall kneel before my belovéd Emperor.”

 

* * *

 

            “…‘Tis true, Young Lord. I’ve known about all of this: Gawain’s tragic past and condemnation towards Lancelot. He’s gone so far as to accuse him of high treason before…but never an assault of this grade.” Gustavio’s admission was painted with shame. “Though, with an even heavier conscience I have hidden Lancelot’s life from you, Lord, as well as this Kingdom. Even his true identity…and his unresolved conflict with Lady Guinevere.”

            Speechless in that moment, Arthur faced Lancelot once more. But none of his features showed hesitation or fear. In fact, there were traces of self-hatred and sadness in his eyes. No tears. No sniffling or sobbing. The Viceroy remained poised and calm. Almost prayerful in his reflective silence. The lack of a counter to all the Doyen’s words led Arthur to believe that everything was true, though to shrouded depths.

            Vanille gave Miles a questioning look, unable to truly grasp what the Doyen was saying. Miles took up her hand, but lowered his gaze. Oddly, Percival kept her sensibilities, much like Lancelot did. She seemed unfazed by what she’d just heard; as if she’d known about it, too. Galahad, on the other hand, made a sighing “Master…” pass from under his own veil of concern.

            Nimue caught on to it. Galahad was Lancelot’s student; had he not known the truth, either? It sounded like the highest of rank-holders knew, which meant Gawain’s inner turmoil was simply a ticking time-bomb. For such a violent outburst to assail the 1st Viceroy was unthinkable—especially from a comrade-in-arms. Nimue understood Gawain’s feelings, suddenly; though, it didn’t mean it was the right way to act on them.

            She clasped her hands together in astonishment. A warmth prickled inside her chest. When she looked up at Arthur—there was an unfamiliar look on his face.

            A pained look had seized the King’s features.

            “L-…Lancelot? The Doyen’s words…Are they all true?”

            Much like a knife to the spine, a biting stillness took hold of the room. With bated breath, Miles, the Luminaria Pages, and Galahad awaited Lancelot’s reply. The Mystic Moon, careful in its stride across the sky, lifted. The White Moon, Sere, floated between it and Gaea. A mother’s loving, yet worried, gaze was given an unexpectedly literal meaning.

            A crystal eye had appeared on Sere’s surface. Although, it seemed half-awake and to be gleaming very faintly.

* * *

 

 

Shamarazad Carmen was impressed by how swiftly her partner’s cowardice fled. Outfitted by even sturdier adornments, both the “Most Powerful” Dragon Slayer and the Eon Dragon were ready for combat. Orange crystals studded the echidna’s armor, now; tags of scaly flesh were sewn in under the plates. Bigger shards went over her shoulders, forearms, chest, knees and shins. Tough fingerless gloves guarded her palms. Sturdy combat boots kept their wedged heels and steeled toes.

            Her tail snapped back and forth with anticipation. She and her partner allowed some low-ranked soldiers to fit them into their suits. The Eon Dragon, Pallastheia was no longer bothered by the adamantine gems that horned her appearance. Without any worries, she snorted softly.

            A maladroit soldier—pinned in green and averting a nervous glance—dropped the Slayer’s weapon. A harsh clink echoed against the metal tile.

            Shamarazad lifted her chin. Her bull’s helm gleamed dark-gold, and an ominous exhale passed through its grille.

            A fidgety little gill with tasteless colorations and a clinging sense of balance. She was a sable ferret, a “soldier” under the command of the Bronze General, Helio Eides. There was nothing particularly distinguishing about her—aside from her nerve-wracked clumsiness. Something in Shamarazad was lit. Watching the girl struggle to retrieve her weapon was a pitiful sight. She’d cut the girl’s redundant apologies from her ears.

            The other female soldiers around them cringed back, as if they’d seen something hideous.

            Finally, the weapon was presented to her. “Y-Your C-C-Crima…m-my lady.”

            Shamarazad said nothing in response. The girl’s hands shook. Her eyes stared at the floor. The Dragon Slayer could smell her fear. But she took back her weapon quietly. A pulsing growth stitched itself into the woman’s palm. It vined, intertwining with her veins, and flashed as if to confirm a life source. In a way, the weapon was alive. It gave a droning glow in coordination with her Gungnir-shaped Signature. A low growl passed through the helmet’s mouthpiece.

            “Cruxialix…!”

            Then, a spear’s blade suddenly sprouted from the dormant quarterstaff. Before the girl knew it, it had connected with her chest. Bone crunched under the thrust’s impact; blood splattered in pain-stricken spouts. Panicked gasps choked on the red fluid arising from her throat. She was paralyzed in fear, and death’s cold leer came from Shamarazad.

            “Useless bitch.”

            Her eyes were invisible past the helm’s visor, but the gill’s eyes met them. No words came to the dying girl’s fading consciousness.

_“Yes, Sire. They are all true.”_

            The surrounding women lost their breaths; some even screamed.

            Shamarazad dragged her body around in a swinging arc in front of Pallastheia. The ferret’s knees scraped against the metal before halting before the dragon’s maw. Crystalline eyes peered just-as-coldly at the girl’s half-lifeless body. “Let me give you a different task,” the dragon overheard her master croon. “Be sustenance for my partner. Pallas, feed.”

            Almost like an opening lock, something unhinged Pallastheia. A cruelness seethed from Shamarazad’s order—if it could manifest as a creature, the women thought it sounded like a lunging snake. Pallastheia gnawed on the girl’s neck, crushed her trachea, and ensured that she was dead by shaking her a little, then proceeded to devour the corpse. Warmth leaked out onto the Draconian’s teeth, but it was more of a delight than an aversion. She crunched on the dead ferret’s bones somewhat happily. The taste of fresh marrow excited her.

            The women cowered away from the Dragon Slayer. Another cold rasp escaped her grille. “War is upon us, you miserable harlots. Be at the ready, for a new era of ‘peace’ is upon us—or else you’ll become _our_ sustenance, instead.”

* * *

_“…I can no longer hide my blood nor my lost love from you.”_

            Linde Chruzna, the “Most Intelligent” of the Dragon Slayers, received a folded piece of fabric. It shimmered under the artificial light in the laboratory. She inspected its make—from the unperceivable stitches to the texture of the cloth. Somewhat elastic and sticky, it resembled a film.

            “Your stealth cloaks are ready, milady,” a scientist relayed to her in stoic dutifulness. “From what we could harvest from the Nixie Dragon’s down, we were able to compose them at a size large enough to envelop your teammates’ partners, as well. Please use caution when utilizing these cloaks, as they are very delicate.” He bowed in apology. “In order to maintain its favorable properties, we had to overlap the material onto silk—another fabric too flimsy for combat.”

            “Pay it no mind,” Linde remarked in a nonchalant manner. “As long as we can use them, leave the combat aspect to us. Worry not for your bones and muscles; keep your acumen.”

            The lady-swallow spun on a ball and headed elsewhere. To her back, the scientist gave a more reverent bow.

            Going in and out of the lights, Linde marched. Her battle uniform hadn’t faced many alterations like her teammates’ did. Her billy goat’s helm cast an iciness under its charcoaled iron; stiletto heels still clacked against the harsh metal, threatening to skewer an enemy who drew too near. Tail feathers bristled behind her.

            One thought plagued her. That ring…

            It made her clench the fabric quietly. That single thought plagued her.

            “She’s mine…!” came the rebellious declaration. Behind her grille, her pupils narrowed dangerously. _“Guinevere…is_ my _Empress!”_

* * *

 

            The Brume Dragon, Erismene’s shrill caw sounded like a clarion throughout the Empire. The Undines wandering outside sauntered on as if nothing had happened. Their dirges suffocated the landscape below. One sat on the edge of a waterless fountain. Around it were much smaller versions of itself. Frosty specks phased right through their tiny hoods.

            It made them wail sadly to the sky.

            High overhead, a quartet of Sky Fortresses began to cruise through the sky. As if to ignore the Undines’ cries. Inside each control room sat the four “Demon Generals” of the Zaibach Empire. Each flagship had its own destination, it seemed.

            Silver General Gustine Getin smirked. Her thin Cupid’s bow danced, “Set a course for Freid. Our next order of business is to wipe Fortuna Temple off the map. Stow Lady Guinevere and the Rose Dragon in our escape hatch. She’s only to depart on our signal.”

            —“Yes, ma’am!”

            Her canine-toothed ship, the Teiring, coasted eastward, while a bicuspid-shaped doppelganger passed from behind.

            Copper General Adelphos Gein focused southward. He snorted, “Returning to a conquered land is like an old enemy kissing my feet.” He threw his cobalt eyes over to one of his Navigators. This time, a blond ocelot’s gaze met them. “Set our course for Gael-Mar. There’s an island I wish to pay my respects to: Spheris Island. It’s a heavenly sanctuary, I hear.”

            His new Navigator nodded. There was no feeling in the young man’s eyes—a stark contrast to the decommissioned Darius Marks.

            “Keep Shamarazad and the Eon Dragon on standby. They’re to depart on _our_ signal.”

            The Oreades Sky Fortress crept on as it completely missed another molar-shaped battleship. Approaching from its starboard came an incisor-like warship. Their commanders seemed to have bickered about something, but they both refocused on the task at hand.

            Bronze General Helio Eides had snatched one of his Navigators from her chair and plopped her down on his lap. To ease his grinding nerves, he forced a palm around her buttock; he got an embarrassed squeal in return.

            Linde shut her eyes. Erismene purred under her palm—her master’s way of saying “I’m here.”

            He clicked his tongue. “Well, whatever. He can take the northern route, then. We’ll just go to Basram…so we can obliterate it. Ready the Energist Bomb. We’ll end that wannabe-Kingdom in one blow!”

            “Roger~!” a chorus of female soldiers cheered in unison.

            From across the way, Iron General Zodia Quu sneered over a sigh. “Don’t rush to yer death now, laddie…!” He watched the young general’s Scheherazade Sky Fortress take towards the southwest while his own Chafaris tiptoed behind the Floresta Mountains. He snickered brusquely. “Plot a course fer the Megalith of Guimel. Its craggy cliffs will surely trap our enemies…if our ‘piper’s’ got a song fer ‘em.”

            Deeper within the Sky Fortress’s interior, a single chamber remained heavily guarded. Spearmen kept watch over the Nixie Dragon, Isis so she wouldn’t try to escape. Just shy of total baldness, the dragon sobbed and sang softly to herself. Noise-cancelling headgear ensured no trickery against the guardsmen. She shivered, worried for her only daughter. Also, mourning her deceased siblings—especially her brother-husband, Kyrgue. Her prayers never ceased, even as her feathers were plucked from her body.

            She wondered if the Mother Sunbird could hear her song.

_“I intend to tell you everything, Your Highness…”_

* * *

 

            Strategos Damocles Kleidix entered the Ark of Vione. He stood before the pool, grandly gesticulated a salute, and went down on one knee. “Your Imperial Majesty, I’ve news to report.”

            Brilliant eyes lifted to the Strategos’ announcement.

_“—from my history with my lost belovéd, Guinevere Dahlia…”_

            A pleased hum rolled in the Emperor’s throat.

            It allowed Damocles to continue: “It is my greatest honor to announce the official commencement of the 2nd Ispano-Florestan War. The Demons’ Sky Fortresses have already taken off to their designated locations. Your lovely Nymphus Nox have been ordered to accompany three of the four battalions, but not to engage the enemy until a green signal is given. Each will rendezvous back here, to the Ark, where a yellow flare will be fired.” He smiled wickedly. “Once we have King Fanelia right where we want him, that’s when I will give a red signal—commanding a temporary ceasefire. The rest will be left to you…My Lord, Emperor Delvander Judas.”

            He sighed under closed eyes. “Wonderful.”

            Purple-tinged fairies drowned on the pool’s surface. They couldn’t stand the blood. Some clung to the Scabbard of Excalibur, so they wouldn’t fall into the tainted water. Alseides’ jaws leaked red trickles and bubbles; the Emperor’s blood brought him closer to full awareness. A huff and a snort escaped through the monster’s nostrils, every now and again.

            Winter had begun to whisper sweet-nothings to him, but Emperor Delvander ignored them.

            Instead, he gazed back at that Earthborn pate. Its eyelashes no longer flittered. In fact, its eyes had opened ever so slightly.

            The Emperor was a hedgehog, himself. His spines curled into six stiff tresses. Two embraced his neckline and curled lightly upward. A submissive pair streamlined towards his waist underneath a more imposing pair that curved more dramatically upward. To simulate horns, by their appearance. Aside from the maroon streaks along each spine, there was an inverted cross pattern that bled across his facial features. Its arms extended over his eyelids till they painted the corners. Its head halted right at the tip of his nose. A crown of braids encircled his head. Embedded into every other knot was a stone. Different-colored stones. Gorgeous stones, as well as oyster pearls.

_“—to my potential inheritance of Zaibach’s Imperial Throne…as the Emperor’s only son.”_

            Crisp burgundies burned with anticipation. “Let us turn the tides of ‘peace’ against those blithe fools. Let the Ispano wretches come for me…and be ensnared by my never-ending eternity. Enter the maws of the Sacrilege, and know the truest immortality.”

 

 

_The Knight of the Lake Is Also the Enemy’s Son…?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ooh, development~! If you haven't read this far on Fanfiction.Net, then here you are! Happy Reading, all!
> 
> Also, some Quick Translations:
> 
> Shkänke / "Shka-een-kah" - a common Gaean address for someone, male or female, who is older than the speaker and is well-versed in their field of profession/skill  
> Sirlak'shihmmi mudyyn / "Seer-lahk-sheem-mee moo-deen" - the phrase used by Gustavio to strengthen the power of his Nölsikh Stratan Ensign; literally means "Restrain (yourself) safely"  
> Länke / "Lah-een-kah" - a common Gaean address for someone, male or female, who is older than the speaker, but shares a level of reverence towards a given master; in this case, this title is used by Lamorak in reference to Gawain, as they are both students under Gustavio.  
> Ave Vespa / "Ah-vay veh-spa" - greeting/farewell for "Good Evening" or "Goodnight"; literally means "hail the evening"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Wind Chronicles of Gaea ~ZAIBACH~](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574889) by [Soprano_Reaper_777](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soprano_Reaper_777/pseuds/Soprano_Reaper_777)




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